Katherine's Coffeehouse

He says he wants to see Solomon's tomb, the Ark of the Covenant, and treasures that turn dragons a shade of muted emerald. Furtively search

The way he says identity politics—as if claiming any identity is something moderately pornographic, a Congressional tabloid where everything is dirtier than he is. Never mind his own proud proclamation: White male. Lover of guns

Or perhaps you would prefer to hear my hands shake, that I can no longer feel my fingertips, that I shut them in

Despondence is avocado toast.

They may not sweeten after being picked, but they do seem to get softer, these aging players that were the talk of the baseball town. For some reason, they suddenly can’t get past the strike zone:

Ageism launched the year we were born—literally. That was the year they dispatched us and a supercharged word into a no-so-straight-arrowed world.

Somerville. Renting a room in a peeling Victorian, too many women sharing one bathroom.

What shall we celebrate today? Should it be sugar-free candies and exercise? That splendid sit- down cross-trainer that politely asks listless arms and legs and hands and feet to do the work for once,

Tell me you made love without telling me you made love.

I owe me yet another one – another, I’m sorry I did that to me, another, please forgive my insensitivity, my inability to protect us from the unexpected week’s end, blasting the same old lie, that we were never good enough to survive