the house of no repute
Friday, July 8th, 2011The foreclosed abode
waits to be adopted as
the weeds take over.
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The foreclosed abode
waits to be adopted as
the weeds take over.
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Not the virtual
enemy that has all the
luck, but your own fears.
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It took one beer to
do him in. One more sip and
he would’ve passed out.
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Into the basket
leapt the tomatoes off the
vines, the corn from stalks.
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Speak, move, assemble,
disagree, vote, worship, bear
arms, have a free press.
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Seeing people you
thought you knew well puts a weird
distance between you.
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The one gallery
brought back moments from childhood,
both joy and sorrow.
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It comes in red and
green and cures the craving for
spitting seeds around.
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Break out the bands and
the cheerleaders. We’re down by
a lot, but not out.
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The tiny candy
bar pacified the tummy.
Until the second.
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The most noxious weed
wasn’t in the ground, but out
spreading seed elsewhere.
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Cars stuck in holding
pattern circling for pick-ups
of worn passengers.
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Immigrants welcome,
as long as they smell OK,
work hard, have papers.
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Power blinks out once
more. No TV, no laptop.
And there goes the milk.
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The birds perched on the
power line, gossiping on
the juiciest flaps.
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