the peeling paint, shards
of white papyrus
shedding
from age and wind,
with
the chain link
fence surrounding
the dirt lot,
where
a dog is tied
to an oak tree. it's
still a home
with shutters half hinged,
painted
a hopeful
color, let's call it
green,
but it's no less a house
than the one
not far
up the street, with
stately
columns and a gated
drive.
a man to buzz you in.
acres of mowed grass
stretche
as far as the eye can see.
but
they're the same
inside, perhaps
a man and wife, two
people within,
whether it's love or hate
that's there, a struggle
or bliss,
well for that you have
to ring the bell,
visit and go in.
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