Friday, November 27, 2020

The Writer

     

 Ordinary sunset, ordinary quiet,

Same line of the planet against the same heaven.

Is it enough? In a heartbeat, you'd said.

Pity, then.


We thought the same stuff was funny,

We thought the same things were wrong,

If we could've been kind to each other,

It was all gravy, baby. 


He takes out his notebook, makes an entry.