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Sunday, Nobody Coming
by Mara Okonkwo — the poem does not scroll away while you write about it.
The poem
The house does its own noises:the fridge, the pipes, the third stair.I used to think it was waiting.
It is not waiting. It is a house.It would do this if I left.It did this before I came.
There is a freedom in thatI am only now old enoughto stop mistaking for loneliness.
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