by Ben Rasnic
Second-hand furniture, the finest
draped in clear vinyl
crowds the parlor
cloaked in cobwebs.
Dried blood trails commemorate
carpet like roadside wreathes.
Mildew and mothballs mask dead
air, thick with secrets.
Hallways hold
no echo
when one swallows speech
at an early age.
Venetian blinds shroud
windows painted shut,
double set of curtains
to keep out the light.
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