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Natasha Mazerolle /  Sat, 23 Apr 2022

The asphalt street glimmers orange

from the dew left

The parallel houses

of muted-colour clapboards and red brick walls

hatted by black shingle

Through one square paned window

I see graduation pictures

of a person who no longer lives there

Turn to the right, another window

A fireplace,

Cards flocked across its mantle

like birds on a wire

Another window, just up ahead

A couch, sunken and grooved

Years worth of history

within its cushions

Once more, a window there

The curtains are drawn

The lights are dark

The family has gone to sleep

Good night