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Poem: 279 

At night, the house was a different person.

A foot would make the marble floors creak.

Light from one lit room would cast shadows into the others

And you would swear someone was waiting in these shadows

Staring at you.


The blue, quiet hum of the TV would scream,

And you could hear the icemaker weeping.

Pink tile from the mermaid bathroom faded,

As dried roses were resurrected.

Little cherub soaps conversed alone against a wood panel backdrop,

The electric streaks of cars outside reached

Into the parlor and grabbed the marble statues.

The chandeliers with their flickering, streaming bulbs

Observed the bizarre routine.

The fake fireplace would cycle

Over and over.

And the doorbell would press itself.

  • A poem by Steven Baltsas.

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Tom Beckham's Slice

Mon., Sept. 26

Reading by Andrew Ervin

Mon., Sept. 26, 2:30 p.m. — Author of Burning Down George Orwell’s House....

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