to stare at the burned
out house next
to a chicken farm
in southern
Maryland,
i feel as if there's a story there.
something to write
about.
i take a few pictures
when i get out of the car
and walk around.
on the ground, behind
the chain link fence,
is a plastic doll,
face down
in the mud,
still clothed, the wired
hair sticking up and out.
perhaps dropped
from a child's hand
when running.
i can smell
the smoke, and wet embers
in the rubble
i can taste it on my tongue,
then
the farmer next door
comes out
with a shotgun in hand
he tells me to move on.
which i do
as a red rooster crows.
behind him.
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