Category: Unyoung

Well-rounded—a poem

I have hobbies and so do you/ but we don’t call them hobbies./ We call them choir or cross-stitch/ or golf or planting trees./ As kids we were urged/ to be “well rounded”

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The body corporate—a poem

Once your home was wet and squeezy/ your only duty was to grow/ until she said it’s over, out you go.
A trusty home is always ours
/ this tender leather pouch /of senses, cells and energies.

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