on nights like this

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    I wish there were some way
    to cut a small slit in the wall
    and let the air, trapped since
    first construction, spill into
    the room and tell its stories.

    I wonder who walked these
    floors in those first days,
    when the pin oak at the curb
    was smaller than the house
    and the street not so shaded.

    I welcome those ghosts,
    the spirits that have seeped
    into the floors and sit next to us
    at dinner, whose luminance
    lights our house in the dark.

    I remember I am only here
    as one who has called this
    house a home, worn the finish
    off the floors, and left the
    lights on in the kitchen.

    Peace,
    Milton

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