Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tell, William

My mind ambles aimless
but the first thing I miss
is your lips when they dart
close beside me to whisper
quick barrages of thought
on those errand-filled days.


Winthrop, the thin mop,
has gone swathing his waif.
What she spins he hand brakes.
It’s for all of our sakes.
Dark eyelashes swing bats,
acid base balls of bait.
Ninety innings we wait.
What a chore just to score.

My sister told her friend not to encourage me after she laughed at one of my jokes.

That’s not bad advice…