Ken was the type of man so quick to point a finger that when he discovered a hair swimming in his pot of lentil soup, his head snapped up accusingly. “Hey!” he yelped. In the kitchen window, his reflection stared back. For once, here was someone deserving of his contempt.
Gabriel Lewis lives in New York City.
Old and wizened, I stare down at my village as though through a jeweler’s loupe. Pink geraniums, moody velvet fuschia, and bigleaf hydrangeas peeking like incredulous heads begem the pathways that glow gold in the evening light. I have done good in my lifetime, but it has come too late.
Gabriel Lewis lives in New York City.