the water
can't get hot
enough, but
it will do.
the pipes are
cold.
you slip
into the luke
warm
pond anyway
with a new bar
of soap.
a drink, no
phone.
a book
of poetry that
you'll probably
hate,
a New Yorker,
freshly fallen
through
the door. you
are home.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment