Fifteen minutes and it is 3 a.m.

My poor boy is sick. I feel just awful that I am all the way in New York, when I am clearly needed in Connecticut. Poor Zachary. I really hope that he gets well soon because nothing is worse than being sick, except for being sick in the summer.

The reason I am writing is because as my insomniac brain struggles to fight its arch nemesis “Sleep”. I am sitting, on my bed, writing small lines of wanna-be poetry, in my head.

Here goes everything:


The window sweats as it rests its weary body

in the sauna called Earth.

The water bottle nervously wipes its brow

as a wet ring grows underneath it.

Just wait until the A.C. gets turned on,

then it will be comfortable.

Please, please, please send me comments and opinions about that piece. As a writer, I must welcome criticisms, of all shapes and sizes, with open arms. And, I do. Please, it can only help me, in the long run.

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