A grey Sunday.
A drive to see my folks.
Mom talked while dad slept.
Perhaps it’s the non-poetic mornings that have more to say…
…a queue of life desperate to be heard.
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A grey Sunday.
A drive to see my folks.
Mom talked while dad slept.
Perhaps it’s the non-poetic mornings that have more to say…
…a queue of life desperate to be heard.
