I was eating a poptart from the vending machine at my desk this morning and thinking about Olena Kalytiak Davis' poem from her first book, "The Weathered Houses on Ptarmigan Road," that ends
They'll never again dream
of that other mother
who smells like cherry Pop-Tarts
toasting, not yet burnt.
Good stuff. The poetry that is. Not the pop tart.
They'll never again dream
of that other mother
who smells like cherry Pop-Tarts
toasting, not yet burnt.
Good stuff. The poetry that is. Not the pop tart.
Comments