More on: Brian Doyle

Please give me the watches, Mother. Engraved 11-6-46. A gold Gruen and bracelet Bulova retired to a worn reliquary, a remote shelf, hall closet ripe: serial cakes of soap, tissue boxes, toothpaste on sale in case of another Depression. I’m surprised there are no smokes in there though Dad dragged on his last too late…

Ezekiel 24:17 said the Lord, this sigh indiscernible, although the si– contained is louder than the second fiddle, second syllable that ebbs into its chopped-off sibilance. The first one lasts awhile, the way we wish that pleasure would endure, the vowel long. It’s hard to leave the bed it’s made, mouth wide until the utterance…

Mr. Moore, who drank; his oldest son paid the bill without looking at me. The apartment with the dog who ate two paperboys, leaving only their shoes. The Morrows who once paid me with a hundred-dollar bill, keep the change. The Sunderlands, who wanted the paper unfolded and laid flat under a stone, Which I…