I hate not being able to think of things. I prefer finishing things. Things being poems.
And stacks of essays still needing capital letters placed atop their jelly-stained pages.
It is still not fall in Alabama. I know you were wondering. Hoping, even. We all were.
And yet. And yet. I am distraught and unsurprised to report: Zero corn mazes.
Zero pumpkin patches. Zero hay rides. Zero leaves crunching satisfyingly beneath
my size 13 sandals.