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in between the street and the offices/ there was a place here. A house for the ones that stayed up late to work/ that’s only exercise was taking the bins out last minute when they saw the trucks roll by. Dawn would come and tell their eyes to open up/ and their bags would hang/ and their arms would drop/ but they had to carry on. Dusk greeted them fondly/ but the Nightstragglers would disturb the little sleep they got. 




Pillows wouldn’t deafen the noises/ but they couldn’t become the old hags complaining about disturbances. Gotta expect the sounds because this isn’t a home built for children. This was a workman’s home. No place for early morning cartoons and eight pm arguments over when is the right time to go to bed. The kids lived outside making their own rules about when they’ll sleep/ if they’ll sleep. They were there once/ but god how those hands of the clock have passed them by. Money ran them dry/ but they needed the ground to thrive. At least that was what seemed right. A kiss in the morning/ then at night/ it was full at first but soon hollowed out. An invisible distance brought them apart/ eventually there was coldness filling their hearts. In space that was finally gonna be their own/ a foundation block for a future/ who’d have known. Separation filled in by brick/ mortar/ and stone.  In their garden the grass flat and seeds ingrown. There was a place here/ but I wouldn’t call it home.

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