Happy Saint Patrick's Day, folks! Hope you're all drinking green beer/dancing about completely sober/doing exactly what you feel like doing :D
Pupdate: she still hasn't come back, which, just, augh, trying not to think about it. Per we_reflamingos
's excellent suggestion, I put a call in to the Humane Society to see if they sent someone out to pick her up after all, am waiting to hear back, so we'll see. I'll keep you guys posted, and thanks again for all the help ♥
In other news, here, apropos of exactly nothing, is the poem I am currently working on! Thoughts--what, if anything, worked for you, what didn't--are, as always, appreciated, as this is only in its first or second iteration and will probably be edited 65 times before I actually do anything with it. And, on this topic, because I've gotten this question before: I don't care if you know anything about poetry or not, I'm not asking for, you know, literary theory or anything (though I would, of course, welcome it). Poems, both in terms of reading them and writing them, are about emotional response for me; as far as I'm concerned, if you have ever had an emotion, you are more that qualified to opine on any poem you come across :D held at ballpoint
swept from my slippery fingers the letters
i could have written you
were sent anyway; the blank pages probably
don't make much sense, smell sticky,
like motor oil and honey,
like small seeking hands.
sorry. if i'd had less shame, more courage, i'd've said
everything, all the words i kept
tucked up amongst the other things we don't touch;
shelves upon shelves of our failings,
bumping together, dripping ink
unnoticed into my hair.
your mailbox is full, now, with pages on pages of
nothing; take them as you will
an overture, perhaps, for years yet to come
a goodbye i never said, or maybe just
for what they are: lines
waiting, hungry, to be filled.