Tony Covatta

Busy businessman Andy dropped his shirts off at Jiffy Cleaners on Saturday mornings on his way to the golf course. He’d shoot the breeze with Mortimer, the frail, short manager, always frowning, stringy brown hair flopped over worried forehead.—“Mort doesn’t have a friend in the world,” Andy would exclaim to wife Amanda, every time the name came up.–This Saturday Mort was inert, slumped in his chair behind the counter, hands on chin, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. The

“Hi Doctor! Thanks for attending our diversity luncheon. Any trouble finding me?” “Nope. Sharp valet. You know, my first visit thirty years ago, I had to park behind the caddy shack.” Ouch. “Take a look at our new menu. I think you’ll like it.” Or not. This all takes time.

Stuck between two books Not a book mark But a faded postcard, Rouen Cathedral by Monet Sepia, Yellows, browns, yet Blinding brightness, radiant sunlight. On the back side the message from you to me your boldest Shapely text, learned at one Of the many schools you fled “I hope you like this book, But if not exchange for another.” So what was that book Maybe I read twenty years ago? So many books So many notes So many cards And here we still are The postcard is rag eared You c

“You’re blind, Bob, a mindless hero worshiper.” “Am not.” “Why this Formula One Champion? Niki–” “Lauda. Absolutely. I had a celebrity encounter.” “At a race?” “No, years later. A Wiener Rathauskeller.” Retired from his three World Championships and fiery, disfiguring crash, Niki waltzed in wearing his trademark ballcap, squiring a stunning Valkyrie, statuesque, flowing black curls. They downed five shots each, left before Bob ordered dessert. “Get his autograph?” “Nope. Didn

Molly’s husband of 30 years, Mort, suffered from debilitating Parkinson’s. Loving, caring, living for two, Molly assumed all his tasks, driving, shopping, bill paying, housekeeping, repairs, even the yard. Meeting home needs and all that confronted her outside, she found she needed to accept smiling both Mort’s malady and all life’s other blows. Her friends wanted to sympathize: “Poor Mort! Poor you! It must be so difficult!” “Yes, and no.” She had run into many facing simila

Goodbye, you tired, you poor, huddled masses yearning to be free. My lamp is out, my golden door slammed shut, guarded by masked thugs ashamed to show their faces but eager to attack and imprison women, children, the elderly. Whether you are held in the fetid swamps of the Everglades, the wilds of rural Louisiana, the backlands of the desert, or hiding afraid anywhere, this song is for you. The time will come again when my light shines, my door opens, welcoming you to come, t