Friday.
Foo Fighters.
Frigid temps.
A friendly face coming into focus.
Surely a fox on the horizon.
Winter meh be damned.
Sit with it...
The interior monologue...
Reduce the inputs.
Notice the resulting space.
Sit with it.
Days unfold...
Days unfold.
People unravel.
No promises given.
The end.
Life queue...
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.
The wild ordinary...
Friday.
Finn.
The wild ordinary...
