We were foolish with hope
that the tiny dirty house
on the gulf would grow up.

Or that the constant wind
would subside to a gentleness

that melody would turn to love
and high school would be a pleasure.

In Winter,
it was rain
and a raging heat

a smoke blinding us
terrible covering fog.

In Summer,
the same heat.

We longed for a larger place
or one away
away from the heat and constant flame.

Dave Barber
15 Nov 08
Telling Stories I shouldn’t say.

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