The bus waits (a poem)

At open mic last night, one of the participants prefaced her two songs by saying that she felt like crap and was running the risk of having to barf mid-song. This poem has nothing to with that, except she was sitting in the seat in front of me, frequently running her hands through her hair. [...]

At the Couth Buzzard on Sunday morning after the storm (a poem)

After my late morning cup of coffee… The tables sit empty except for this guy in one corner (that would be me) writing in an oversized sketchbook with a purple pen Sunlight peeks in through a couple of open windows (it’s in my eyes, but that’s okay) A box fan in an open doorway keeps [...]