Thanksgiving creeps up
fast, like a turkey farmer
wielding a sharp axe.
November
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Thanksgiving creeps up
fast, like a turkey farmer
wielding a sharp axe.
Hadn’t realized the
thermostat had to be set.
Freezing at 60.
Late night imparts great
wisdom to ideas which seem
silly in daylight.
Brought in the ficus
tree. Fallen leaves fly about.
Wind whispers, “snowfall.”
Site Meter tells me
my words are read in countries
I’ll never visit.
If everybody
blogged, we could not go to war
knowing each other.
Lunch with L. Trying
to find his path, he asks me
for my sage advice.
I’m sleeping on the
couch again. I write ’til late,
then collapse in place.
Sadako folded
a thousand paper cranes and
hoped for miracles.
My daughter asks why
I hate Paul Tibbets. He was
just doing his job.