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House
Someone lift the lid off this dollhouse
Find
A homing pigeon in a cage with the door swung
open
Little rooms with beds unmade
The newspaper unfetched
But we play very well here
Clean up to dirty again
Who would be father, the businessman
Works late his desk a slate
Of things undone
The would be mother, bandages hurts
Remembers birthdays
Sees how a wineglass breaks
There is never enough time
For bed, for words, for falling apart
Before the lid lifts
Playthings again.
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