Back Alley of Americana

Where shadows cast
puppets the children
smiled and laughed.

Where space remained
for another painting;
hanged precariously.

Where paint peels.
No one’s slept in
that room for years.

Where that house
is slated for
demolition, no
one’s lived there
for years; the wife
ran off with another
man and the husband
took to living under
the bridge downtown.

Where no one knows
except us neighbors
who are all dried up
in our age, the children
don’t tell acquaintances.

Where no one knows
because no one wants
to know.

I don’t want to know
either; I paint my
walls every year.

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