My Place
The morning sun comes over my house
and lights up the little gold house
across the street. My blue Prius, mailbox
in a bucket and two locust trees
by the street, my rocky yard on a hill,
my porch lined with four lilac bushes
and holds a loveseat, milk can and
coal bucket from Pennsylvania
remain in the shade till noon.
I sit by the kitchen window
breathing in the fresh air
watching cars rush off to work
while writing poetry and
getting breakfast, starting the day.
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