Broken Windows

I am open now, and empty
desolate, desiccated
and free from the meat bags.
It took them long enough
despite the hunger
the heat and the thunder.
Cold now,
freezing and blistery
I don’t have to worry about burning up inside.
There’s no more rage in here,
no more sadness and
no more laughter.
I certainly intend to continue
dragging the wind and
collecting the wets.
There’s coyotes in here
their cackle brutal;
you can smell the thrill of the hunt.
Scampering occasionally
I really don’t mind
it’s not constant.
I’ve been here for decades
but what does that even mean
to an old house.
I just wish I could see
those mountains.

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