I live in a house
I will inherit
in a land I can't
explain to you.
Its a brown brick
building with black
shingles and tan
windows. My mother
lives here. In a room
with pink kittens in
frames of orange
oak and spotty glass.
Every monday she
argues with a man named
Ken on the phone-their
voices' tidal heave
and dwindle
over the air waves
and wires.
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