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the perfume on the wrist of this home

is banana bread, and wheat bread,

and rice & beans, and brown butter salted rice krispie treats.

the hum in the head of these old bricks

is the dog chasing the cat

then sitting by the door waiting to see if i am a big enough sucker to let him out


only to race cars driving by across the front yard.

the life blood in the veins of these painted walls

is spinning in four uncoordinated circles

jumping onto the couch

running back across the living room.

(the cat is still faster)

and we begin again.

and i am a sucker


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