The Cafe Review

by Naomi Shihab Nye A man comes home carrying a pineapple. His family and friends gather ’round him happily. No pineapple has entered this house

by Tim Seibles Time is passing, I grow older, things are happening fast This thing I do — the tongue I use — does give me some relief All I have

by Anne Britting Oleson Who else would drive by, holding that cigarette out the window of a pick–up which had seen better days years ago —

by Kathleen Sullivan Do you find yourself watching now for stubborn crows, penny nails, limpet shells, the dimpled light on an orange? Now can

by Nadell Fishman The loons on East Long Pond went silent this morning; it’s a gray day and the chill that rolled in from Canada last night has

by Erika Butler “I won’t be able to come this weekend, but I’ll see you next time,” you wrote. “It’s for a good cause, though. We’ll miss you —

by Gerard Grealish I imagine you inviting strangers into the fold, finding in the cut of their words a grain that draws you in, knots burned from

by Betsy Sholl Six months after you died, spiders fill the field, gleaming in early sun, having spun all night their bright God’s – eyes,

by Betsy Sholl Bird flash too quick — to sketch it I’d have to rush the line, long dash like wind riffling the paper I am almost out of,

by Megan Grumbling appears between our weekly beers one afternoon. It’s small, but has some weight to it — cast iron, solid, and as plain as our

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