Author Archives: Michael Procopio

When my father tired of a place, he would occasionally dust off his seldom-used South Philly accent, lean over to me, and quietly say, “Let’s throw this place a fish”. It’s a combination of words I’ve heard only one other … Continue reading →

The house next door, once vacant and more or less abandoned for years, is alive again with the sound of workmen’s saws, jackhammers, and polka music from 8 to 4. The overgrown jacaranda in their yard that used to shielded … Continue reading →

A pair of mourning doves were fucking outside my kitchen window the other day. At the very least, they were giving it the old college try. The male fluttered his well-groomed wings from time to time to maintain an awkward … Continue reading →