How About That? (County Route 20)

Afraid to read them for a year

longer than a year     frightening unread piles

pieces of paper    pages I wrote   what if they weren’t much

what if   I’ve been pretending to be a writer  for so long

what if I actually don’t know how to write except

for an occasional goodish sentence  in a letter to a new friend

Dear Friend what if I’ll never read

what I wrote because I am too afraid  (I did yesterday )   if my thousands

of notebooks will never be a story if I won’t have the chance

ever to tell you that the woman at Great American met her husband

while he was stacking cans of peas an artist she said she played

the violin and although her parents said NO

because he was very very poor and hers were not so poor she

married him 45 years ago and according to the woman whose name

is Dee they’re still happy.  How about that? she said.

 

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

1 Comment

  1. O’ I dare say this must not be so! You know the thrill of running across the piles of paper and finding a forgotten piece that you ask yourself, ‘Did I write this? It’s wonderful!’ And you find- you did! Dig on dear author of joy. Also, hurray for Dee and her find. I’m looking forward to reading The Pea Man.

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