old people talk funny.
they use words crafted by years of use
and misuse.
the words seem to be
hand-handhewn boards in the corridors
twisting around their dated homes.
these sculpted words linger in the
neutral, warm-milk air,
escaping every once in a while
through the cracks in the caulk under
the storm windows.
their syllables slips from aged ash tongues
and their calculated corners knife into closets
filled with wool suits and conservative pumps.
these words are dusty.
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