The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Su­san Barba

Here she is again, old char­ity, for­got­ten nearly, cut­ting back the ex­cess be­fore frost.

I could tell you about her per­ma­nents in the kitchen, mal­odor, her arms against the nickel, that she drove a Lin­coln with a blinker that raced like a ner­vous pulse. Metal­lic blue with robin’s egg in­te­rior, like rid­ing in a habit.

Daily I walk past a scotch plaid lumpen mass that rose once to a man: Give me my com­pen­sa­tion.

Give me my com­pen­sa­tion. —Su­san Barba

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