The Fragile Inn
The morning clouds scatter over the earth
like a vapor, chimney smoke hovers then
grasps the curling tendrils and sets sail.
Men of dust are moving about with hushed
voices saying, “the grave is never full” and
“it’s a sad truth that folks gotta move out to
make room for babes moving in.”
The little guy, moaning for a strong hand
to reach down and save him, runs out the
door to bury his smile in the vacant flower
box. His sister sits on the front stoop with
Goodnight Moon and their mother’s treasure
box on her lap looking brave in her black dress.