The Sunday Paper

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Black square tiles
are coated with dust and dirt
that crack into each crevice to
fall
and fade to meet the chipped, blood red wall.

The hinges cling to the rotting plaster
as rusted metal crashes
near the stained carpet in front of the door
where a pair of black work boots, laced tight,
dirt covered and torn, rest for the night.

The mahogany table overlooking the boots
supports a glass jar
that’s filled with copper and silver coins
that crush the crumpled green bills they join.

The star shaped hole in the pale, white, cracked ceiling
drops beads of yellowed water
into a dull metal trash can
filled with crumpled grey paper and smudged print.
“Want ads” runs down the paper astray
that has been drowned in the passing day.





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