Depending on who you talk to (my spouse, Facebook, my infernal muse, ABC.com…) I am working on a new poem. As proof, and in danger of ex-ing myself from the writing genre, here are some lines from this new poem (although of course if proof was necessary, it wouldn’t exist):
no/can’t. do. it!–cannot give proof–am/chicken s***
It was a 3 day weekend. I obtained sleep. Dogs visited us. The heatwave continued. We tried the new Trader Joe’s baked shrimp thingies. I experienced time alone. My son and I attended several heatwave burdened birthday parties. Dadda worked in peace, here and there. The cauliflower plants died, whereas the Lowe’s salvia has gone absolutely mad, pushing sexy purple blossoms on our plot of sweltering San Fernando Valley. More than once we’ve mentioned, achingly, Fall, Fall, Fall—i.e., cool.
I am working: I am, I am.