Eight weeks (a poem)

For now…

Anymore the days don’t flow into one another
they’re wrenched from the top of the stack
and thrown onto the slag heap

Somebody wants to see how far they can go
before the whole thing collapses
while the gallery bets on ‘what if?’

But in an empty world, what can that even be?

I suffered through all those yesterdays
only to have today taken away
and tomorrow thrown into doubt

Ghosts no longer live in ghost towns—
who will I talk to now?

(16 March 2020)



Wishes sometimes have consequences—available to order from your favorite local bookstore!

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