Peppermint Tea

The day is yawning to an end
with me on the couch writing
this poem, listening to Greg Brown
sing a song set in November ’63
on a cd called The Poet Game,
and don’t you know I’ve written
many a poem for November,
and ’63, and my dad at the wheel,
and his deep voice resonates
in the hollows of my chest
as my head grows weary
in the warmth of good old songs
and a big mug of peppermint tea.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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