POEM: Could Be Worse: or, Slow News Year

There’s famine in the heartland —
lungs full of the blowing sands.

People huddle near the fire,
waiting on the news, sans wire.

But the news won’t get better
by the time you get the letter
it’ll long since quit being news —
it’ll be lyrics for the Blues.

9 thoughts on “POEM: Could Be Worse: or, Slow News Year

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