Late one evening, Mr. Right and I were relaxing before bed. Ready for sleep. I had my nose buried in a “cozy” murder mystery and was nodding off. Mr. Right did the same except watching Thursday Night Football. Suddenly, a memory reached out and slapped me.
“I won a poetry award!” I sat up and blurted in my drowsiness.
Mr. Right opened one eye and directed its cycloptic stare at me.
“You don’t write p…
