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.
I dream of such a place.
ReplyDelete<3
ReplyDeleteTell me where I can find it. I miss you so.
ReplyDeleteYou are going to be brilliant.
ReplyDeleteYou are, brilliant.
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