creak
in the floorboard
going up
the stairs.
under
the weight of one
foot
after the other.
it's been there forever,
since
the last brick
was laid down,
the last nail
hammered
sixty years ago.
the predictable groan
of pipes
in winter,
the wheeze
of air through the crease
of a window.
the woman who lived
here before me
heard it all,
and the one before
her,
she heard it too,
as i do.
in time it sounds
like home.
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