Suddenly the story lurches forward
Along with a quickening of the pace
Concentric circles alone
Don’t make a champion
But hitting three rings on
Your first go is no
Cause for disgrace
You had hoped for
A golden scarab
In the dead of winter
But all you heard
Was a stink bug
In the rafters high overhead
A golden scarab
In the dead of winter
But all you heard
Was a stink bug
In the rafters high overhead
This is one of the early poems from my new collection, which is being written in the form of notes that I'm sharing, in real time, with the show-runner for the upcoming season of my life.
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