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Waiting For Flue

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An old tired house of masonry and wood
sagging a weary spine with dark windows
the soul is gone, leaving only whispers
like shattered ribs of nicotine smoking
it’s last cigarette waiting for the flue

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    1. I drive by old houses no longer lived in, and my imagine goes wild. I picture the house full of activity in its heyday.
      I wonder if maybe there is a soul…and maybe it lingers after the house is abandoned.
      This poem haunts me, but in a good way.
      j.

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