Motherhood in the age
of fear
no, not unless all the people
in the world
disappear
noble man
poems
without titles
Bob stood at the typewriter
in the corner of his room,
drinking red wine
and smoking
and tapping away
relentlessly
for hours
the collapsed cores
left behind
by the final explosion
of dying stars
I try to be
a cool girl
I like the verse regarding Bob– it is so easy to get lost in one’s own head typing, to be carried away down the stream of consciousness.
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