driving through the dark
steering with one hand
searching coat pockets
for a tissue. How much time
we spend in the dark, in the cold,
racing forward while still searching
hoping to find something
soft
driving through the dark
steering with one hand
searching coat pockets
for a tissue. How much time
we spend in the dark, in the cold,
racing forward while still searching
hoping to find something
soft
there's a poem in every day
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
i really liked the ending