Step on a crack,
spilled salt,
an owl at daytime—
That a boy so young could be so superstitious was something.
“Keep on like that and you’ll end up in the nut house,” Mother would tell me.
Today,
down-sized since March,
single again,
I sit on the edge of this mattress
with all the time in the world on my hands,
lonely as a cave
but validated nonetheless.
0 comments:
Post a Comment