As we sat in our front room this evening, with a cozy fire, my wife reading a novel and the cat lying on the footrest of her recliner, she said,
“Kitty falls asleep
he’s doing some sort
of somersault dive.”
My wife didn’t say it as a poem, but it didn’t look right zooming across the page like prose that didn’t know when to stop.
Sometimes the lines just know where to