Saturday, September 11
I wrote a poem.
My soap exists to wash me
just as I am here to feed the dogs.
Everything is easy in the morning.
And if I cry at eight pm - I often do -
tired and full of pity,
(mystery achievement, my ass)
I'll try to remember morning
when it's sweet and soapy, simple
and the dogs say:
hurry, feed us, we need to get back to sleep.