by Tobi Cogswell
Dressed in his “church pants”, he cuts through a field
like a rabbit on skates. Late as he often is, he’ll get “the eye”
from some chuntering old usher—get nothing but grief
from postman to pub to his mother and wife,
who left ahead of him–early–gently walking the road,
the sway of her contentment like a velvet metronome. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 