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At the left side of Liberty Road, forsaken,

even by the trash collectors, twice,

once white wicker, sagging from so many

summer nights of loving or the loneliness

of generations of grandmothers' laps and

the climbing or curiousity of young children.


Oh, what whispers and lies, if you could speak

legs lopsided, yet still standing,

rain falling in a soft deluge,

soaking faded green cushions which

disappeared during the night the moon dimmed,

leaving you so bereft, so unprotected from

the greyest sky and hidden sun

of morning's light, except for

a soggy cardboard sign, FREE, handwritten

in permanent black.


Oh, for all that is broken, falling apart,

full of holes and worn thin places,

for the emptiness of what once was

I sing a song of longing.

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