This house
of candle wax and bird droppings,
teacups with brown-coffee stains.
This old school, with the ghosts of hippies
skating in the hallways,
and faded maps of Greenland
tacked to the ceiling.
This small house, all a jumble
of stale laughter and broken chairs,
with chipping gold paint
on a blue background.
This grand mansion, left muttering softly to itself,
quietly decomposing,
an old widow- Nate, let’s dance.
This venerable hovel, well versed in sorrow,
this, the corner where they kept the potatoes,
here, the hearth where they cooked them,
there, the bed where Peggy died when there were none left.
This blue plantation, empty now of all who knew it,
empty of happiness, of new love and old,
but empty also of the pain of those who were kept
against their will,
finally free.
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