..:: CONTENTS ::..

..:: POETRY ::..
Joanne Kyger
  The Distressed Look
  Sunday in the Storm Era
  San Francisco March Against War on Iraq January 18, 2003
  "Not In Our Name"
  Look! new moon
Forrest Cole
  Poem Seller
Stephen Ratcliffe
  from Cloud/Ridge
Claudio Perinot
Jamie Galgana
  Water Cycle
Christopher Arigo
  Catalogued evidence
Virgil Suarez
  Bone Soup / Sopa de Hueso
  In the House of the Birth of Christ
  When Rain Speaks of War
David Krump

..:: PROSE ::..
Han Quek
Kenneth Pobo

..:: ART ::..
Wes Tilson
  Cycling Mandalas

..:: ETC ::..
  Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..


Han Quek


     Mother told Father to get rid of Driver.  He was getting muddled; difficult; too old.  Smelling bad: that “old person” odor.  Which she could not bear.  She told him he was getting more and more reckless; cutting off other cars unsafely; getting into arguments in the parking garages.  If he were not an old man, he would have been beaten up, she added.  Many times.  Many times, Mother (teary-eyed) told Father he would never understand the embarrassment she had had to deal with.  With Driver.   

     So we did.  Got rid of Driver.  Who had been with us for twenty years.  Since before I was born.  With Father.  When Father became successful in his business.  Father who had a bad foot.  Who could not drive.  Driver was about fifty when he was hired.  He was the perfect age.  Not too young.  For young drivers were understandably less trustworthy.  Always wanting to speed.  Checking their hair and faces too often in the mirror.  Looking at girls.  Understandably.  Just the right age to be dependable.  To handle himself with discipline.  Mother was only sixteen.  When she married Father.  Perhaps too young.  Father was forty-five.  Perhaps the perfect age.

     Driver’s son came the next day.  To tell us his father had died in his sleep.  Last night.  His son did not appear angry.  He said his father had a good employer.  Treated his father as if he were family.  Driver’s son said we should be the first to know.  And telephoning would be insincere, he explained.  So he came in person.  His father was almost seventy, he added.  Father kept apologizing.   Mother kept opening and shutting her huge handbag.  She wanted to pay.  For something.  I told Driver’s son his father had no more reason to wake up in the morning.  Thanks to us.


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