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38

Sunday, Nobody Coming

Mara Okonkwo

Lyric poem · Home · Solitude

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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