Aphorisms for the Alewife Bus Terminal


Memoir is a pair of sunglasses

for the near-death experience. A forlorn


tabloid fetches only faked pejoratives.

Queue for the Veterans Hospital


and there, only muttering chieftains

will query the daughters of Down syndrome.


If a hairdo turns bitter,

revoke its license.


The hands of a sleeping benchwarmer

will not soften in salted water. 


What is a crossword but a frenzy

of mimics? What is concrete


but a lack of prism? Not only here

do little tears of widowers


fish through their expiration dates

in earnest of eternity.