by Ethel Mortenson Davis
blackness
seeps
in my room.
he crawls up
onto my lap
like the uninvited guest
he always is.
i keep hoping
he’ll leave
before dinner.
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
blackness
seeps
in my room.
he crawls up
onto my lap
like the uninvited guest
he always is.
i keep hoping
he’ll leave
before dinner.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry