“What will happen to your writing – all over the place – scraps of paper – papers of paper –
pages of paper – when you die?” she asks.
She holds a page with some words about yard-sale shirts on a fence.
“I don’t know,” I say. trying to remember when I wrote about yard-sale shirts on a fence.
“A shame. Think about it. When you’re dead, it will be too late, left all to me.”
I turn into my pillow; sleep comes heavy and fast.
Long and short sleeve shirts declare their colors in my first dream.
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, early November 2013