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An old house upon the hill Sitting quietly, sitting still Dusty everywhere with dirty windows cracked Broken down shelves and old books stacked Moth-eaten rugs and rotted boards
On that one side of paradise In the Tropic of Cancer Along past warehouses and water towers Their backs turned squarely To the train that bumps and glides on the tracks My head leaning against the window
Where has the privacy gone? From homes separated by a large canvas Of green grass and long fences Now walls sit not a feet from walls Where voices can clearly be heard And privacy has dissipated into the
I was a child (more than I am now) when my grandmother shared with me the world. She’d get mail, like all adults tend to, and leave the blank envelopes for weekends.
I tell the time by trees. I tell the time in threes. Three by threes from trees. Three by three by three. Time in trees to three by threes. We pass our time in trees. We pass our time in threes.
Over such a vast expanse of suburban sprawl a warm aura of sunset orange radiates from each roof, Houses, just actors in the scene of their surroundings, A distant city as the backdrop.
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