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Thinking of Thomas Wolfe

I sit with book in hand and read alone And think of Thomas Wolfe, who now has gone And left us with those books that are so great; And since I can't go home, I now must wait.

But while I wait, I'll sit and read more Wolfe And try to dig those gems out of his books. At penning words, Wolfe surely had his way And often wrote ten thousand words a day.

I'll sit and read his words and also write And pass the lonely hours of the night. And though I can't go home again, I'll think of Wolfe and move my pen.

Wolfe was a writer, but I'm no Thomas Wolfe. I need to read and not to write a book. And since the Muse is not with me tonight, I'd best stop now and come again to write.

(And this is wishing you, dear friend, good night!)

by Hardy Parkerson © All rights reserved


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