One afternoon for Chris One afternoon he actually died during one of his anecdotes, one which he’d started in one village, and had persisted in so that by the time they’d reached the next one he was still going, having taken a tangent at some crossroads and kept on with the tale, so that … Continue reading A poem by Bill Greenwell
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A poem by Bill Greenwell
Scold for Chris She put his tongue in a mousetrap once, without the cheese. It wriggled a bit, and the vowels vanished. They were stacking shelves, and he’d been delving into the pockets of his past for an hour and a half, no pause. ‘Will you shut up shop?’ she asked, a bit … Continue reading A poem by Bill Greenwell
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