November sky
framed by the basement window
thoughts of home
The ceiling still water stained. A pile of poetry books on the desk. None with my name on it. Yet my life harms no one—no wife . . . no pets.
Today, on my forty eighth birthday, no one calls.
framed by the basement window
thoughts of home
The ceiling still water stained. A pile of poetry books on the desk. None with my name on it. Yet my life harms no one—no wife . . . no pets.
Today, on my forty eighth birthday, no one calls.
Haibun Today, 5:4, December 2011
