an old writer and his words

  • HERE TO THERE

    It ran, got me from point Ato point B, often with a fewstarts and stops, alwaysbegrudging, and a ghastlyshade of yellow that helpedexplain why I could afford itin the fist place. The windshield wipers diedperiodically, so I avoidedrain when possibleor accepted a soakedor frozen arm when not. Eventually the topof the carburetor came loosebut Double…

    Lou Faber

  • LIGHTS

    For eight days each Decemberthey call out to me as the flameof the candles flickers out,“Remember me” they say in unison,“remember me”, in the voice of the child,an old woman, in Yiddish,in Polish, German, Czech, Latt.I want to remember but I cannot seea face reduced to ash, blendedinto the earth of a farm field outside…

    Lou Faber