Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after. Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as the paper before the poem.




4 comments:

  1. I dream of such a place.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Tell me where I can find it. I miss you so.

    ReplyDelete
  3. You are going to be brilliant.
    You are, brilliant.
    x

    ReplyDelete