Poetic Interlude

While the next blog is percolating, I thought I'd share something my typist wrote a long time ago:

BASS

Whenever I hear sounds

that make my stomach

vibrate

I think of him…

With his hands skittling

Like water on a hot griddle

Over the strings…

A metaphor

Which would probably

electrocute him

if he knew

I thought it.

© 1977 Roisin's Typist