No news. No call. No weather worth the word.
The mail was flyers. The soup was soup.
I want to write this down precisely
because I have kept whole journals of the disasters
and not one page of a day that simply held.
Let the record show: on the twenty-seventh,
the house stood, the people in it stood,
and the sun went down without an incident.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
