Is it really poetry if all I’m doing is
If there’s no rhyme scheme, no repetition, no
“Where were you?”
Tracy drops her keys when she spins around. “Jesus!” she half yells. “What the hell, Mom? Why are you even awake right now?”
With her greying hair and purple robe, Tracey’s mom is perched on one of the dining room chairs. The…
He’s at the club. Lights are low, as usual.
There are dark things in dark corners, as usual.
And he’s here, watching it all.