Bikes and skateboards appear,
blinking old eyes
dazzled in the bright sun,
hauled out of garages
by children in grimy parkas,
fake fur trim begging for a wash
and a summer-long nap.
Bikes and skateboards appear,
blinking old eyes
dazzled in the bright sun,
hauled out of garages
by children in grimy parkas,
fake fur trim begging for a wash
and a summer-long nap.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Poetry Practice
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
