Waiting Hours Poem by Taylor Jones
Waiting Hours
Stone walled pipes
of rusted iron
The smell of painted wooden stairs
The summer's day will soon be mired
underneath its waiting hours
gravel parking lots
are not for parking
or for walking
half the houses here are vacant
no one even knows their neighbors.
No one ever checks their mail
Shotgun shack
thrown out back
in the washroom
in the basin
his trademark crimson
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5/4/2024 8:57:29 AM # 1.0.0.1119
