Buck has put two boxes of my writings on the dining room table downstairs. I haven’t been down yet, not being a very morning sort of person, and my down-going may be delayed by the two mysterious boxes. Well, mostly by their content.
You see, Buck, being a very loving husband, has collected every scrap of paper that I’ve written a poem on. Literally. I write on bits of paper sometimes. Whatever’s handiest. And Buck keeps them.
And they’re there.
Waiting for me.
Maybe I’ll become one of those recluses I hear about who never leaves her bedroom for, like, twenty-some-odd years.
white pebble 