peschpoems blogspot.com

Peschs Poems

Monday, September 30, 2013. I was always sure. Hers would be the next call. Delayed with some excuse. Errands, car trouble,. I was always hers. Until that last call,. The one that meant no more. Calls were coming,. The one that ripped. The bowl of cereal. To the laminated floor,. On the spreading sea of milk,. As it made its way. I sank down and sat. My slippered feet sliding. A bit as I splotched down. The wave of milk rolled. Blueberry islands in arcs. As the drips landed. As it rippled into spilt milk.

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Friday, February 11, 2011. There was definitely a crash. With no hood to pull up to shield his face from casual glances, his posture changed. No longer did he slump forward on the granite bench. Instead he sat, arms crossed and feet splayed out in front of him, taking up still more of the small alcove in which the bench sat. His stitches were prominently displayed, but his defensive glare tolerated no questions. And nothing more to do. The dark and cold were split.

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Peschs Poems

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Monday, September 30, 2013. I was always sure. Hers would be the next call. Delayed with some excuse. Errands, car trouble,. I was always hers. Until that last call,. The one that meant no more. Calls were coming,. The one that ripped. The bowl of cereal. To the laminated floor,. On the spreading sea of milk,. As it made its way. I sank down and sat. My slippered feet sliding. A bit as I splotched down. The wave of milk rolled. Blueberry islands in arcs. As the drips landed. As it rippled into spilt milk.

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This web page peschpoems.blogspot.com states the following, "Monday, September 30, 2013." We saw that the webpage said " Hers would be the next call." It also said " Errands, car trouble,. Until that last call,. The one that meant no more. To the laminated floor,. On the spreading sea of milk,. As it made its way. I sank down and sat. A bit as I splotched down. The wave of milk rolled. As it rippled into spilt milk."

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Scant Stories

Friday, February 11, 2011. There was definitely a crash. With no hood to pull up to shield his face from casual glances, his posture changed. No longer did he slump forward on the granite bench. Instead he sat, arms crossed and feet splayed out in front of him, taking up still more of the small alcove in which the bench sat. His stitches were prominently displayed, but his defensive glare tolerated no questions. And nothing more to do. The dark and cold were split.

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