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The Neighbors' Weave
by C.L. Bledsoe
The vacant lot behind my house is a carpet laid down for birds; a green shag swaying in the slow ceiling fan breeze. That and the blue white toothpaste clouds settling in the porcelain sink of the sky remind me this is someone else's home. Buildings, like furniture placed oddly to hide stains in a rug, almost ruin the natural feng-shui of things - the mirrored tops of lakes are forgotten, flower beds are placed out of sight of doorways . . . I wonder if the birds see my neighborhood as a series of squatter shacks. I throw out bread that the birds don't eat, and water blueberries that they do in a plot that's mine for now, but someone else's when the lease is up. Men are pulling the carpet up in the vacant lot; revealing a clean scrubbed floor of dirt beneath, waiting for someone to track cement across it. |
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