"She’s all that’s make believe, and as real as the September sky."
It’s evening now and I sit thinking of diners
Then silence - a dial tone - and a quiet
This is a poem about a lot of things, but mostly it’s a poem about
I’ve always wanted to walk down stairs, on a day such as my birthday, into a room filled with balloons.
He asked, “What makes a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.