by James Broderick

Night provides little relief from the torrential downpour that soaks my soul. A printed list of responsibilities soothes a troubled mind just as a hearty meal satisfies a growling stomach, unless I forgot to turn off the stove. Trust and confidence elude me; wisdom and awareness avoid me. The foul stench of suspicion and uncertainty lingers in the air, smoldering like a cigarette that I'm not sure I snuffed out completely. Many questions remain unanswered. Perhaps I better check the back door again.


James Broderick is quite happy most of the time, and tall all of the time.