Alan Abrams

December 1, 2022  |    No Comments

Like clockwork—a little after sundown— Rosa raises her snout from her front paws. It’s that damn skunk again. She whines and snivels, and parades back and forth until you have to open the door. You pray that she won’t find

Alan Abrams

November 30, 2022  |    No Comments

  A crumpled, upturned steamer trunk lies at the head of a cobbled path— across the path is a toddler’s shoe. I must squat to touch the strap of the trunk. No, it’s not leather, it’s bronze, like the tiny

Alan Abrams

November 8, 2022  |    No Comments

To get there, you walk up a steep hill, past the parking lot where the cars are neither new nor luxurious.