Kenny’s House.

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Three windows,

each one higher than the next,

each one showing more telephone wires and cloud.

 

A lock and handle,

Speckled by time and grime,

on the door that separates cold and warm,

wet and dry.

 

There are cracks in the paint equal to the cracks in the safety,

the cracks in the wholesomeness.

 

It’s still a haven.





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