not eastchester, not westchester, not chesterville, not chesterburgh– just plain ol chester
on the P train headin to the writers retreat. not really sure what to expect of the weekend. this is one of those poetry things where i make believe that i know what i am doing right to the point where i am nearly drowning and pray someone comes through with a life preserver.
very nervous about the fact that someone may blow my cover and realize that i am just a comedian makin believe ima poet.