Making. A life. Because that’s what it is. Dropped off at the bus station. No return ticket. It’s about finding a gig. Something to laugh at. Someone to laugh with. A melody to hum. A way to spend days. Some people are pushed. Others pulled. I was lured. As a teenager. I grabbed a classified. And answered before reading the words. There was adventure hiding in newsprint. And before I turned twenty, a wrinkled and curled up forefinger begged me on another path. Steered me from the rubber-lined walls of convention. Set me free. Placed me in a box that’s missing a flap. Often too small. And most times nonexistent.
All This By Hand
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