: About Me

Futility Eleven thirty-something, Friday On this six-plus year-old couch Red microfiber washed a hundred times My kindergartner sleeps sound Mouth open-wide, audibly breathing Blonde curls resting candid all around. It occurs to me, two directors One of will and one of post Both think they traded up with me removed Blame it on the economy My lack of faith in those traditions The truth is one was lost and one was found. Let us believe in angels, the unforeseen of now And talk not badly of this, our condition We cannot view an email auto-response As lack of recognition - For the resume of th...