There was a robbery last night. They broke into Zigman Zibanski's small single room, where there was a leaky corner sink.
He owned nothing of value, but a gold picture frame with a photo of his mother. That's what they stole. Zigman felt sad as he turned up the fallen chair and put disheveled clothes into place. He then drank vodka and fell heavily back into bed. When he was especially drunk he thought of his old country and the days behind the iron curtain where the police took his mother away.
This was his secret, of course. He told no one of that time. Even his friends he'd never let inside. He'd only meet them at the front door and then they'd go to the One Lucky and drink. If not for those nights, his heart would leak like a corner sink.
Poetry Pantry #350
13 hours ago