Late afternoon feelings flood an empty space.
A question bubbles to the anticipating surface.
Patience for fulfillment is getting much thinner.
With persistence you ask, 'What’s for dinner? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Chicken, garlic mashers, corn and peas.....OH... I'm sorry...I'm not suupose to answer the question, I'm suppose to comment on the poem....And now I'm hungry : O) ...Good write tummy....I mean Theresa : O)