Some days the old horse had a nosebag full of chaff. When she didn’t, she would wait out the front cropping grass at the base of the wooden telegraph pole near our driveway, plopping steaming turds the size of tennis balls, the colour of Keen’s mustard.
It’s always an honour to share publication with a lot of talented writers, including poet-buddies Les Wicks and Jackson. Thanks LiNQ for publishing my work.
Read the poems HERE.