Obsessed with youth, December turns
colder & colder. I make up characters

to sell a story. Jack & Jill went up the hill
was hummed forever ago. As kids we assumed

by crown they meant the shiny kind. We were
taught all books were about honesty. I thought

verse was honey only few bees knew instinctively
what to do with. I learned about men from my father

first. I first believed in power after learning the sun moves
flowers who live thousands of miles from it. Which reminds me

of summer. As a storyteller concerned with truth, Jack gets a job as
a winter caretaker. The book he writes on his downtime becomes a bit

repetitive. Jill isn’t a Winnie or a Freddie. Jack ends up falling & chasing her
with an axe. What the hell? Somebody get your dad. As a storyteller concerned with truth,

I never intended to become a writer. As a child my father’s voice boomed so loudly, we joked he
woke the dead. He told stories mostly about white women & debt. Of our rewards in heaven.

That’s the funny thing about telling a story no one will buy.
So what do we do for work?