You forget.
Today it’s a name–
the man from Manhattan
who traded the city
for quiet hills and
a big farmhouse,
another thing that
used to be
yours.
You send a card anyway.
Life’s a gamble, you say.
You forget.
Today it’s a name–
the man from Manhattan
who traded the city
for quiet hills and
a big farmhouse,
another thing that
used to be
yours.
You send a card anyway.
Life’s a gamble, you say.
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