all dastardly acts and inglorious behavior lay in the muck of everyone’s river along with those shiny flecks of good deeds and selfless gifts why is it that panning for gold in others is more fruitful
when I read a poem I often invite my heart to sit on my shoulder fork in hand and check out what’s being offered she’s a picky eater so when I see her stuffing her mouth I know someone’s cooked up a r
at least once everyone should wait for a small-town train at night where shadows sit on friendless benches crickets skitter and bounce two tone chants off the platform and the wind is missing resting