a sort of poem
Last week I mentioned that “I’ve been treating blank pages like confessors since I was seven”. I imagine that sounded hyperbolic, but, as you can see, it’s true.
Now. The cover is one thing. Actually reading it is something else entirely. I legit cringed at the thought. But my curiosity overwhelmed my trepidation and I opened it to a random page, where I discovered this:
“The man has a hat
The man has a cat
The cat sat on the mat
The cat sat on the hat
The cat is fat, and now the hat is flat
So the man doesn’t have anything to wear.”
Poetry has never been my thing.
Posted on January 30th, 2010 under Grenada • Tags: childhood stories, journals, vintage, writing. • 
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