Mr. Taylor

I don’t believe the BP prints poetry, fiction, or non-fiction essays, but I thought I’d submit this piece of “local color” anyway. Maybe (though a stretch, I guess) it might even fit as a LTE. Could be edited if thought it needed to be a bit more family-friendly.

So there I am sitting on the porch late Sunday afternoon. Across the street are the backyards of the houses on Lorain Ave. There’s a guy there -- Tom – who’s had girlfriends over the years, some live-in. They sit in the back yard. All look the same. 40-ish in 30-ish disguise. Blonde. Tube-topp’d. A good bit of soft sexy roll in the tummy over the tightest, slightest jean shorts. Voices a tad too loud, laughs a tad too masculine. Swigging bottled beer. They are unnamed. Never introduced. Never last too long. This Sunday there was a woman who looked somewhat the same. They cut grass. Raked winter mess. Dug up flower beds. And then on all fours, head next to head, they planted. And whispered. And planted. And giggled. And planted. And laughed. And laughed. I sense this woman will be introduced.

Edward J. Gallagher

Professor of English, Emeritus

Lehigh University