The table wobbled while Harry doodled. He shoved a folded piece of paper under the off-kilter leg but it refused his help. He saw no solution to their homeless situation. An amateur gardener gifted with hoes, and a poet who wrote about flowers was not likely to find work in a world run by Google gods and Zucker-burghers. Continue reading
The cuppa station so freakin’ far
a thousand miles to drink some cha’.
To slake this habit borne lifelong
hastily I hump along –
seeking grace from a samovar.