You’re rich, my friend tells me. You eat steak three times a week. Rich? I look out the kitchen window. A car rusts on blocks in the driveway, another’s swaddled in blue tarp.
giving thanks
we put aside
the score cards
It’s not what you eat, it’s what you drive. My friend’s father drives new cars. But the new car smell will elude me until I’m in my forties. Two hundred miles on the odometer, then it will happen.
morning fog
out of nowhere
a meadowlark
writes Japanese short-form works. His writing has appeared in many fine journals, including Failed Haiku, Haibun Today, The Cherita, The Aurorean, and KYSO Flash. Peter and his family currently live in the high desert of Southern California, where he works as a Licensed Counselor.
