Poem on a busy day

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I thought I had ten
minutes to write this but I
now have less than two

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When You Don’t Go Online

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Lazy Poem

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Our House

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Our House (Draft 2. Final draft on substack ) A house starts as four lines, a red, crayon, box shape with my five-year-old hand's signature stroke. Three decades later, my eldest daughter would switch to green to draw her triangle top. Her younger brother will add twin teal smaller squares, will divide them into fourths.  My mother's eyes should recognize how these windows represent the promise  of known depth, but they don't. The only thing I know? My youngest, a daughter, will not be satisfied. Not until, passing that five-year-old-threshold, she scrawls pink and purple flowerbeds on the right side, on the left. In time, for all of us, the shapes move, the colors layer. Our crayon melts into something we, a kaleidscopic household, can't quite control. Something neither my nose nor their father's can quite smell. Sure, whether here or there, time will be measured in dollars and cents.  Perhaps, like on our broken marriage license, each name on the le...
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