The Gravel Diaries
by Martin Ott The pen scratches a long-ago itch. A one-eared dog brays at a coyote invading his street. The delivery truck coughs too close for
Spring Thaw
by Mike Bove Side streets roil with rough slush, diminutive whitecaps loll at the foot of driveways, mailboxes wear melting crowns and bow low
There is a Rumor That During Construction of one of Portland’s Prominent Thoroughfares in the 1850s, Some Workers Died in a Freak Accident and the Road was Built Atop Their Bodies
by Mike Bove The men buried beneath Commercial Street are hardly resting. They died where they worked, stayed where they fell, and rolled only