'Selected Stories'

Who was it turned me on to Alice Munro?


                             

I can't recall.

But thank you.

She's a treasure.

Coming to Grips

So it's plan A again,
a quiet place under the big white oak out back.
I can see no other way to rid myself
of the clutter I’ve accumulated.
(Only so much can be given to charity, burned.)
And too,
I’m a fad.
I have no enduring value.
As things are, I’d never be a mantelpiece long—if at all.
At some point I’d have to be dragged from the attic, discarded.
I’ll spare you the bother.