June 29

My house is all brick and fur,
yours is shipwrecked wood.
I could open the door for days,
yours is locked three ways.

Language grows like a weed
between us, gramma speaking
Polish, or Spanish, muttering
incoherent. The town square

is a web, the universe endless.
We struggle with what to call this
and who leads and how to enter.
These days we can’t find a center.

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