His days marched in placedays like tin soldiers each onepushing the next aside. Hurry, hurry before it is too late…inside a gaping hole to be filled.More and more of the surfaceof his life was covered by dust. The hallway gave off a musty odor.Night after night, lights burned.Busted dreams heaped in boxes.Black marks covered floors. Less and less energy to clean up.His body betrayed him, both hisbones, his breath betrayed him. One edge of his room spoke tothe other. His fan purred all summer,basement furnace heaved all winter.This incessant sigh gathering dust.
by Joan McNerney
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