Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Closure

The paint
on the white picket fence
was peeling.

The dried-up,
seed-filled pods
on the spent poppies
drooped.

The grass
was brown
and dusty.

The kitchen window
was mostly
broken.

I picked up a rock
and threw it
hard.

The rest of the glass
shattered
and fell.

No one
lived there
anymore.

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