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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #2191570
My childhood in the perspective of an inanimate object.
Little did the real estate lady understand
The last owners left us high and dry
To spook new residents
With that old motto
If These Walls Could Talk

Only one monarch to rule here
All ardor and scorn
From the loss of her king
By his own hand
In the ground floor den many years earlier

Numerous more through sleepless nights
Listening to late-night radio
Or watch Johnny Carson
In the master bedroom while those offspring
Carelessly drowsed through her turmoil

The older ones just another memory
While their younger siblings indelibly printed
Tears and pain under our new paint
Thunderous feet still heard
On shiny hardwood, the kitchen linoleum

Reverberating farther and farther away
Until sole pair of the youngest
Trotted along nothing but an echo
He put up for sale despite all our reminiscences
That implored him to stay
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2191570