Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I'm presently working on a blog post that is borderline revolting. Not unlike my time in 9th grade. But before I share it with you, I thought I would share something completely unrelated I recently found while digging through old boxes. It's a poem I wrote for my dad's father, when I was 9 years old... and (evidently) enamored with poultry.  Which, now that I think about it, actually makes this poem marginally related to what I'm currently writing. But that's another story... Enjoy! No, really.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater If things were different... they'd be different. Instead, I drink my coffee. Cold.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater The man looks to the sky as the smoke rises from his pipe. I look at you and you say to me, The world could sure use a lot more air.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I'm afraid Afraid of what? You often ask me. Of loneliness - I answer. Don't be ridiculous, you tell me. You'll never be alone, I hear you say. As you quietly leave me. Always. Careful. To shut the door behind you.