He was a GAUNT man, seeming to EXIST in a world apart. I had studied him carefully from my vantage point, my usual spot, in the café. I only saw his BERET and tweed jacket (white button-down collar visible, naturally), with wisps of hair sticking out at odd angles. Curious. He definitely did not match the sunny terrace, filled with young people laughing and talking. Since I saw him last week, he has DWELT in my imagination. And here he is again. I pause on the sidewalk. Shall I approach and strike up a conversation? Take the table next to his, even as that disrupts my routine? I think not. Let him continue as a figment of my imagination, grist for my writer’s mill.

Georg’ann

Climbing, each STAIR concave
the entire structure shaking, paint peeling, bits of rust.
A neglected rural MOTEL
no EXULT at our arrival, or anyone else’s.
Anonymous here we KNELT, hands reverently folded,
as we said our prayers.
Believing goodness still DWELT
within

Heather