Moss
Moss
On Sundays I make myself familiar with
the moss on
the oaf of
rocks adjacent to
the driveway on
the west side of
the house.
They’re always keen to know if
I prefer the last letters or
do I prefer the
first or
the middle that form a
word or
a
proverb.
Too they’re keen to
know how many lines do I
write each time I’m at
my dark oak desk (my desk is named
Something Done) writing with my
HB pencil in my
snot green-spiral notebook my
horror short stories live in. I give them a
different answer for
both questions each time.
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