​​​​​​Dina Greenberg


Barely South Review, Spring 2014

Last foreclosure on his list to inspect, the Crowley woman’s shack lunges a crazy angle through the pines. Dewitt’s headlights strip it naked. Porch railings slouch gap-toothed in the rain. A yellow dog thrashes against its chain. The mud. Dewitt licks Big Mac grease from his fingers. Crumples the box and tosses it with the rest. Third night in a row he’ll miss his old mama’s supper. The night sky heaves again, and a low, angry growl as Dewitt edges toward the shack. The dead weight of it all prodding him to get on with his task. His fist nearly mute on mildewed, rotting wood.