Church lady pies,
lounge in the back seat,
taunting me.

When it comes to a working man
his garage is biography...

She's just a cat;
a fixture around the house.

She hung dead roses in my kitchen

I am from what was once called
The Paris of the Midwest.
Nugent called it the

Have humans always killed each other?

The ancient garage always reeked of grass.

The best cure for poetry is

My poetry kicks in the door,
bellows for beer,

I could have stared at the waitresses legs