we are in our old house in Gretna
a visit with old friends
and I look through a doorway
a boy four or five
short blond hair
sits in corner enclave
where comforting warm air blows
out of a register on the wall
this is his spot
no flames or burning wood to watch
just white walls and
mum working in kitchen
he has a friend though
he lives here
in this spot always
they play and talk in quiet whispers
telling secrets only they know about
being so grown-up
the whispers fly up through the register
and are lost in the ducts of the house
you can’t go back and hear them
even though parts of the boy still linger
in that enclave
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