Tag: Bob McAfee

Winter’s SongI.Every morning in Boston.Every morning a girl loses her way.Every morning the sun reopens the clouds,yawns above the city of shrugs. Those who are

When You Are Old you spend hours on a bench in early morning Paris cold beneath the verdigrised statue of Charlemagne outside of Notre Dame,

The Surge The body bags stacked in rows like cordwood piles behind the shed; the morgue man’s business grows and grows. Night nurse hovers over

Blackbirds Inspired by In my Craft or Sullen Art – Dylan Thomas You pause As if what you mumble Doesn’t matter Perhaps no one can