5: 20 P.m.
departure,
a rush of people
escaping
the narrow door
bursting on the
road
towards home
you are here
with no place to go
the home
has turned into a mere house
plain stairs
with closed door
unwashed window panes
the lawn a stranger
to mowers
the dusts live here
and some
wishbones crushed
by a black dog
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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