The poem I am not going to write excuses herself daily, needs to wash her hair, roust the dust bunnies from under the bed, empty the worn-out clothes that malinger in her closet. The poem I am not going to write excuses herself daily, needs to wash her hair, roust the...
Amy places the whisker back into the mug of steamed milk and glances over at Kat next to a pile of empty teacups. She sits on the tall kitchen chopping block, sketchbook balanced on her lap. She snaps the book closed and hops off the block. Amy places the whisker back...