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Barefoot on Thin Ice


Sharp corners
I am sitting here
On the basement steps
With another cigarette
Staining my fingertips,
Admiring the sharp corners
And white walls.
March would be proud
Of the colors I see.
The floor is bald
And green
Except for the steps
Where children have danced.
The furnace swells
Like it wants to explode
But it has fallen silent
To catch its breath.
It is too quiet in here.
The basement is haunted
By the ghosts of
Dancing children.
I could wake them
With a primal scream.
But then I would
See the sharp corners
And white walls
And reach for another smoke.
Purgatory is a comforting place
When you own it.
 
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