APRIL, 1987

I’m writing these thoughts
because I feel strung out.
I’m frustrated, tired
and having doubts.
Words through a pen
are an outlet, you see
But will the paper
hold up - and me?
Things just haven’t
been right for months.
It seems that
everything comes at once.
John is in Texas,
his home on the range
And I’m not entirely
up for a change.
I like my back porch,
Linda Paul down the street.
I can ride to see “Mama”
in a heartbeat.
I don’t mean to be
ridged, unwilling to roam
But for now I would like
to have me a home.

4-9-87