Golden tendrils on her shoulder
no rhyme, no reason, just getting older
her half-pint work of exhaltation
now serves as mere constant frustration.
I hold a book to my chest,
wondering how much time to invest.
Should I help her get her daughter to sleep-
for sure our friendship that will reep.
I will only be stepping on toes.
and this is how the childless thinking goes.
Tickle your toes. . .
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two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked... -
to have sticky pins for fingertips and ballpoint pens for thumbs. then I could fascinate myself to you, and write away doldrums.
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July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
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our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
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July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at us,...
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Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
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The ache in my jaw reminds me of my age, that I'm still cutting teeth on broken sage and giving up meat is my best bet, because I'm ...
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Pedi-ness The awkward tomboy within me hides in the balls of my feet. Itching, rising up my leg begging for a scratch. "Oh, say somethi...
Poets United Contributor
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