We roar into summer
like an ancient pickup truck
hauling that travel-trailer along.
Our plans and packed up hopes
stream behind us. Inside,
the cab is all downdrafts and tinny
music from the old transistor, drifting
out windows that won’t roll up anymore
So the world pours in.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
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 Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
