by Andrew Dunn
Beside 226 flowers grow in a straight line,
It’s not hard to imagine a driveway and sidewalk their counterpoint,
hiding under weeds,
But it needs to be hard,
Everything is so hard when you’re alone,
They said there never was a 230,
That scrub growth was always there past 228, hiding things that can’t
be spoken of,
It’s hard to believe that but,
It’s impossible to question when everyone’s gone,
Twilight hints of a farmhouse ghost,
Translucent behind flowers in a straight line, vague windows beckoning
That beckon until you are yearning,
For voices and faces now absent next door,
That left you there alone.
© 2021 Andrew Dunn
Andrew Dunn is a brave souls who did not supply a biography,
tempting the editor to spin tales of his early years in the lost city
of Opar, his escape to the Belgian Congo, and transit through a time
warp to seventy five years in his own future.
Find more by Andrew Dunn in the Author
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