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At My Little House In The Village
Martha Deborah Hall
Red, white and blue waves on the porch,
a gentle man arrives home by five.
In the fridge a twelve-pack of Coke cools.
My children shuck corn out back,
catch fireflies on clear, summer nights.
A weed-filled wooden cart lists by the shed.
A smoke roaster barbecues beer-can- chicken.
The fireplace works on chilly days
and a teapot whistles on the kitchen stove.
One pawn remains on the den chess board.
Our barn is home to the lame horse “Sparky”
and to a chicken with a broken wing.
Salt of the earth neighbors live to each side.
In a field beyond our granite property marker,
random bouquets adorn nearby gravesites,
some, off to the right, with white crosses.