poem a day, day 11.

napowrimo #11: the thing you didn't choose Everyday we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?

Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.

Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.


the sweat begins to simmer on my forehead. can't believe we're here again. we have to get out of here. we can't. we are trapped. buried six feet in an avalanche, handcuffed to a silver steel jail post, cemented in a conversation with pop-pop, we are stuck.

76 always is backed up--

idiot! i'm an idiot. but if your ac worked, this mess might be more bearable. and if your seats and dash and whole interior weren't black, obnoxiously tar black, i wouldn't be melting like wax. i might have gotten us here, but you… you're making this worse.


should have taken ridge. should have taken ridge…