http://dkarim.com/edit-form.php Carriagerun Charlie’s on the couch, ears half-up like he’s mid-thought. Jadie’s at the door, guarding the house from falling leaves.
They know I’m not writing for the money. They know I’m not writing for peace. They know I’m not even sure why I’m writing— but we don’t care.
They watch me the way priests watch sinners: with disappointment, but also a little hope.
I think they expect something good to come from it. Maybe a walk. Maybe a poem that doesn’t end with someone dying, or a man talking to his ghosts.
But I can only give them the sound of fingers trying to find whatever’s left worth saying.
