My dog contemplates
an oak tree in the moonlight.
No leaves, but acorn rich.
Big Shot Librarian
I still look there
in your place.
at your desk post,
a smiling face.
Your job the distance
between wait and weight.
No small town bookstore
held your fate.
For us, the books,
with musty smell.
We snap our spines stiff,
to remember you well.
Untitled
They talk to themselves.
All of them.
Looking for that place of unconditional love. Freedom.
That place where the goal is simply to feel better.
To get ok.
They're not crazy or lonely but they are.
Homeless.
But who isn't.
The great thing about poetry,
is that sometimes you just
stare at an empty page
& wonder if you have anything new to say.
today.
And you end up with a poem.
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