Her words throw me down hard onto the wrestling mat.
I am mean to her because I know she can take it and also because it’s easier to show her I care by expressing disdain instead of affection.
Beth’s poetry catches me off guard with the Miranda rights way it gets to the truth by withholding nothing, so help me God.
Neither one of us is interested in physical contact because we learned a long time ago those who really love you will leave and those you cannot stand oftentimes will stand the test of time and then some.
I wish I could have eaten a western omelet with Einstein and discussed just about anything with Stephen Hawking.
Knighthoods are a dime a dozen in these days of plant based chicken in a bucket and vegetables that don’t believe in the letter of the law.
Watching a friend’s poetry blossom does my heart good as Wilford Brimley starts to again pop up in movies even though he hasn’t made a film since Timber the Treasure Dog. Honestly, I thought he was dead.
Let’s get something straight your itching reminds me just fallible we are as we breathe in carbon dioxide while trying to distance ourselves from our convoy-carbon-footprints.
Her words no longer kept hidden under a bushel as her Lite-Brite consciousness shows us whose boss in these glass-shattered-ceiling nights and days.
Eating Chinese food with her and Evie is a great excavation into everything that’s possible once you stop punishing yourself for someone else’s sins.
Beth’s poetry is the green light that’s necessary to start us all moving.