Yesterday was a disappointing poem-writing day, but a good family day. The prompt was to write a poem about something that was missing.
I got two ideas on my way home from the store, and then I did my P.T. and cooked dinner and ate and cleaned up the kitchen and then we ended up having a family conversation about all kinds of things for over an hour, and by the time I was able to write, I had only four very spare (or highly compressed?) lines left.
In Our World
Five lives lost—six,
if you count their father.
When did his gun
become an answer?
I didn't write about the death of a family, because I was spending time with my family, and that's a trade I'll make. But there is so much more to say about this. Too much.
If I'm in the same situation tonight, I might sit down right outside the backdoor and write before my evening begins.