John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
I stand before the wrack of it;
The home where I first learned to read.
The humble house of all our hopes.
Our refuge in our hour of need.
Surrounded by a plywood fence,
she lies in splinters on the ground.
The debris field of my yesterdays
is spread about me all around.
I find a piece of painted wood
with our house numbers nailed upon.
I rescue it for Closure's sake
One last look, then I am gone.
Comments about this poem (Fore Closure by John F. McCullagh )
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