In a long room spreading through
the front window, she dreamed
of writing, and the only books were
labels on tin food,
the songs, the songs
she heard from the cellar door,
and the garbage dumps overflowed
with golden pen drops and the stolen goods,
only made her want real things
and she looked out too many windows,
saw nothing behind her,
when the wind blew,
and the trailer park poet
wore too many hats.
Photo Credit
Photo By Melinda Cochrane – All Rights Reserved
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