Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Fifty-Seven:

57

Morning becomes morning 

becomes morning.

The days roll 

into each other. Waiting 

for spring.

Did I go to the box 

for the mail? It begins 

to blur. This 

Covid thing. This 

ancillary time. This.

Get up. Take the dog out.

Repeat. Take the dog out.

Repeat. Day and day and 

day. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.


25February2021

Markle~

at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
  • Sixty-three:
    63 When I can’t sleep I look at the moon and ponder wander. My great great grandfather James Alexander Gilmour  owned and operated a coop...
  • #107
    #107 The wind blows away. and an umbrella lasts according to its quality. Down the street an organ grinds away melodiously as Jackdaw Pete m...
  • Trolley Dodger.
    My Nana was withered at the end. A fragment of crêpe paper caught in the wind. My mother, much the same at that age had been the picture of ...