First cup of coffee for night shift: 9pm. This whole being a verb is a serious business. I forget the name of the phase of the moon like I forgot the name of the first girl I loved. The warm air makes for a thinner veil. Ghosts mingle with tourists wandering the midnight wharf, trying to talk them into swimming. The interstate moans through the hours. I’ve lose count of the cups of coffee.
Category Archives: work
October-eve morning on the river (broken tanka)
fog off the water on a crisp AM:
a late September sunrise
oil paint orange, pink, and blue
my bed calls
annotation on the end of a story arc
where did a year go oh where do it go
it’s 9 pm and my boots have minds of their own
I want to calm them with children’s stories and lullabies
though faith in such things wanes like driftwood stuck up against the wharf