Guest Poet – Kevin Stubbs
At the end of the garden,
In the outhouse bog,
I sit,
unlit.
Red-gold rays of the retreating sun
Crawl through the cracked and weathered window frame.
This old man will countenance no waste
On 3-ply, 2-ply or aloa-vera infused.
Rough-ripped squares of daily mail on a driven nail
Are all that he will use.
yapparister 