Dream House
by Michael R. Burch
I have come to the house of my fondest dreams,
but the shutters are boarded; the front door is locked;
the mail box leans over; and where we once walked,
the path is grown over with crabgrass and clover.
I kick the trash can; it screams, topples over.
The yard, weeded over, blooms white fluff, and...
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