My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen...

It was important because

had they not moved into

the house in the suburbs

and picked the one

nestled in the corner

of the birch tree covered street

with the long wrap around porch

that had a wide entrance door

built like a giant mouth

where next to it he could

place her favorite rocking chair

that her great uncle bought

for her great aunt in 1964

that she used to quilt and knit and crochet

knick-knacks, bobbles and sweaters

for her family, friends and kids

and smell hydrangeas and tomatoes

Every Sunday afternoon in the fall

while he watched football games

he couldn’t have leaned out

of the mammoth door way

of their perfect wooded nest

dangling from the screen door

like a giddy kid with good grades

during half time commercials

right when she looked the most tired

to kiss her softly on the cheek

before the evening breeze

blew leaves into the…

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