Francis McWhannel

1 An abrupt halt with an exclamation for emphasis as the small child crosses your path in pursuit of an over-blown balloon the softness of his butter-blond hair and warm scalp beneath these meeting your hand extended for your own sake and his by happenstance not so his father’s insistence that he make apology nor this lingering sensation of swelling in your throat as you thumb your glasses up the bridge of your nose and continue on your way.   2 From one side to the other is no farther the terraces loaded with low-lying solidities of indefinite origin the“Francis McWhannel”

Jump in