Poetry

Ode to the Discarded

While sitting on the curb, I see a rusty old bolt laying on the pavement.   I pick it up, turn it and feel its heft, its cold edges, My fingers now stained orange.   I run fingertips over threads still sharp, not stripped.  …

Poetry

A friend for life.

Sometimes I look at you, Not taking off that gaze, Upon you I place my sight.   Just to think, How fortunate and blessed I am, To have a friend like you. To have someone to care about.   We could hangout, All day long…