Circus 2020 This is my comfort, then. The tattered red robe never worn so much. The tea grown tepid in my constant distraction. The dogs’ deep existential sigh, Her head lolling in my lap. She eyes the rabbits who roam so free out the window. Envious, yet too lazy to rise and bark fruitlessly at…
Tag: poetry
Prose Poem, March, Published today
Burningword Literary Magazine APRIL 2019 | NONFICTION | 0 COMMENTS March As in, pick up your mud-crusted boots and move along. Forward, onward. Stopping to ponder one’s thoughts could lead to a frozen death, a swampy drowning. March As in, the January memory of one million bodies filling the DC green (not green at all), the wind cold and…