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Our shabby little houses look like conjoined twins inexpertly separated. Her family’s house got the worst of the porch, ours got the sagging gutters. Read the rest of this entry »
You’d think by now the house would be empty, but every Saturday she seems to have more to get rid of. When we moved into the neighborhood, she was putting out just one long rack of men’s clothing in the yard near the failing azalea bed, Read the rest of this entry »
Saturdays the punishing sun lashes the asphalt of our tormented neighborhood. The fresh tar simmers underfoot. We’ve come together where the sidewalks meet the street, each tethered to a different house by an orange extension cord. Read the rest of this entry »