These are rehearsals.
Before the curtain rises
on that show about empty nests,
practice solitude–
Ten minutes, an hour, a day
with no one asking
for money, food, rides.
Test the quality
of the air at midday,
at midnight.
Soft as the leaves on maple trees
when the wind dies down,
quiet as nights without crickets.
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 Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
