On Bacon Street
The Curbside Chronicles
Every morning, the world begins again -- with bin lids askew, coffee cooling in china mugs, and a lone pigeon casting judgment from the gutter.
Here at the edge of the day -- between the sacred and the soggy -- we gather fragments: old receipts, bruised fruit, the stubborn poetry of leftovers.
The Curbside Chronicles is a record of such moments. Stories told in crumbs and compost. Observations filtered through tea leaves and the occasional muttering seagull.
You’ll find no influencers here. Just the wind and a cracked footpath.
Mind the bins.
Here at the edge of the day -- between the sacred and the soggy -- we gather fragments: old receipts, bruised fruit, the stubborn poetry of leftovers.
The Curbside Chronicles is a record of such moments. Stories told in crumbs and compost. Observations filtered through tea leaves and the occasional muttering seagull.
You’ll find no influencers here. Just the wind and a cracked footpath.
Mind the bins.
Litany of the Kettle
Had a moment this morning
Wasn't sure if I was praying
Or just pleading
Either way it boiled
Wasn't sure if I was praying
Or just pleading
Either way it boiled
Second Sight
There a spoon in the sink
I refuse to wash.
We're formed a bond.
She's seen things.
I refuse to wash.
We're formed a bond.
She's seen things.
