I loved the peach, but after a year, I was ready for a change.
There went Sunday night. :)
It's poem Sunday again, but I'm tired, so it's going to be a little one.
Tired Sex by Chana Bloch
We're trying to strike a match in a matchbook
that has lain all winter under the woodpile:
on sodden cardboard.
I catch myself yawning. Through the window
I watch that sparrow the cat
keeps batting around.
Like turning the pages of a book the teacher assigned --
You ought to read it, she said.
It's great literature.