Jan 12

2 min read

The Treadmill

a poem

I don’t know how to work, daughter,

as you run on the treadmill downstairs

because the snow-filled streets of our little,

Maine town are too treacherous for walking this morning,

this day that you will leave. I’ve

put away laundry, waited for some sort of epiphany

More from Carrie Jones

Internationally & New York Times bestselling author. Writing tips. Almost daily animal thoughts. Podcasts. Poems. www.carriejonesbooks.blog

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The Treadmill

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