Poetry

Cars Are meant To move

I don’t feel like creating
 And I’ve run out of
 Things to consume

Watching the
 Kiddos draw

Each turn finds
 Distinction in
 The subtle details
 Of execution

Chaos reigns
 Snowballs everywhere

Quicksand Is less of a factor

You drive a Porsche

I am sad
 And I’m afraid
 That it’s catching

Churning salt air and white water

Nothing
 For me
 Until Nova Scotia