Grizzled houses desperate in need for a weary, traveler’s feet.
Hanging to chasms of rubbish buried with half burned tin cans…
the cleavage of crippled, front doors
…
Bygone…ordinary, tarnished, steel coat pegs.
and
forgotten ice skates
…
and the one cent stamp.
…
A room.
A community not centered.
A destination of ordinary.
A place of my own…
A house kept in my withering hands…with a body in similar repose.
Dust in day by day.
Secretly I will drive it away.
