by Doug Paul Case
He blushed when she caught him air-tracing letters again. They didn’t even correspond to the words he’d been speaking. “Don’t worry,” she said, “every time I drive past trees I pretend to cut them down with my finger. And then I make paper.”
Doug Paul Case wishes he wrote this poem.
He blushed when she caught him air-tracing letters again. They didn’t even correspond to the words he’d been speaking. “Don’t worry,” she said, “every time I drive past trees I pretend to cut them down with my finger. And then I make paper.”
Doug Paul Case wishes he wrote this poem.
