Home

Home

The floors creek against
the weight of your comings
and goings as a cat
might purr against
your offered warmth.

The roof has gone soft
with moss
and there’s a window
in a small room
that pilfers morning’s sun,

spreads it across the floor
as a blanket upon a bed.
I sit, let the moment cleanse
my thoughts,
caress the blank page

patient on my lap.
Then, I write.

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