It's been well over a year since I submitted anything for publication, and much longer since anything has been accepted.
I'm hopeful but fragile. Poems become friends and their rejection stings.
Here's an excerpt from "On The Interstate"
Life happens in flashes.
I write it down on Post It notes.
Bugs splatter to their deaths on the windshield.
He asks me
“When we die, why the earth doesn’t die with us?”
Eleven more lines follow. It's a short but sweet one. If it's never accepted for publication you can read the rest in My Little Book of Poetry (publication date somewhere between now and my death).
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