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:
“Summer”
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.
