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Crumbling Roofs
A tin rain ticks between
the scrabble of pigeon claws.
Time drips off a shingled edge.
In moments you can land years behind
as just the shrunken rolling head
of a whole decade.
Eyes open, you watch,
a bushel of owls hooting
as aftershocks shake
a crumbling roof -
one you are no longer under.
Listening as if on a phone,
sliding into the woe-be-gone,
you are now,
back in the backyard of nowhere.
Pigeon wings clatter,
a rain softens,
to a slow
measured splattering.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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