The chinking
Between the logs
Has come loose
Borne away
To other’s comfort
Leavening
A multitude of
Scuttling claws
And teeth
To bristle nests
At the gaps
The wind
Can freely
Enter
Rudely
Self-inviting
Threatening
Stupidity
The doors
And windows
Front to back
Line up
You could shoot
Right through
This un-winged crib
These lots
Them that keep
Can earn
Their salt
But will never make
A decent pile
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
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