Sid Miller Monmouth The time has come when six rose bushes in the front yard is no longer just adornment and beauty—but big business, A cut-your-own-bouquet enterprise. Naturally, this means Jack will have to consider, then reconsider his old notions of change. He can trust the soreness and dull aches, but not what he's see in the mirror. The hundred year old brick building, once the Bank of Monmouth, built by sweat, is now a tanning salon. The money's long gone, but old dreams hang like ghosts, like his back home, hovering above his sleeping wife's open mouth-those of the road, of other places-those that she'll never take deep into her lungs. Before he leaves here, he'll place his hands on the brick, feel that it's a strong as ever. He'll feel the beat of bad dance music inside and wish he'd never dreamt. Veneta There's been plenty of lists like this: mitten, frame of a television set, fire place, one metal wheel from an old fashioned tricycle, soot, ash, burnt lumber. As you shove yours into your back pocket, you know that yours is no different from the dozen others who stopped here to write one. You pass the empty Laundromat that smells of bleach, the tiny park where the man swings his daughter by her arms. At the church turned coffee shop, the stained glass colors the morning light colors you know nothing of. When you sit down with your coffee and pull out your list, you add a couple of new words, abstract ones. about Sid Miller