Poetry · Writing

Trust

Pinwheeling through it. 

Gentle breeze blows the house

to pieces. Your labeled

The Big Bad Wolf. 

Pieces will lie on the

cold Earth for an

unmeasurable amount of time

before it heals. 
The contractor never

makes eye contact. Shamefully

assembling the remains as

a toddler builds a playhouse.

The pinwheel spins

until the next great gust.

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