5: 20 P.m.

departure,
a rush of people
escaping
the narrow door

bursting on the
road
towards home

you are here
with no place to go

the home
has turned into a mere house
plain stairs
with closed door
unwashed window panes
the lawn a stranger
to mowers

the dusts live here
and some
wishbones crushed
by a black dog

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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