Growing Older

When I get older, nearing fifty – let’s stick to that number for this poem – many of my friends – if I have the same ones then as I do now – will be in their late thirties, and I wonder if I’ll slow down and not be able to keep pace with younger …

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Displacement

The cold air of the AC grazes my neck. Our lattes arrive. I glance at the frothy cream in my cup and look at my father, wondering if he misses the Irani restaurant that has been replaced by this café. He says he doesn’t. He tells me the Irani place shut shop years ago. He …