So much sand
it sticks to my legs, my toes
my arms and fingers
wiping off is pointless
there will be
so much sand
it’s a feature, though
not a bug
All the sand
used to build things tall and wide
scary or soft, or both
little towns for little cars
little plains for little animals
places for people to talk, love,
and shun, hate,
and everything in between

My sandbox
not with grains of sand
but words
words trying to build feelings
feelings where I can live
where characters can live

feelings that tell me
what my soul thinks today
about the world
and my place in it.
and submitting poems
to grownups with publications
is
selling my world of make-believe.
to strangers who probably won’t get it.

*a friend suggested I not put my poetry and story experiments on my blog, but instead submit to paying pubs. Where is the fun in that?