white wall patch on the floor a lonely broom in a corner, two 
ft. from a crooked door. 

the foundation's cracked and slowly sinking. 110, hot, yet the sun has set & here I sit, alone,
just thinking. 

the saying goes there's reason for all... missed my flight perhaps to answer some cosmic call. 

these moments of solitude are golden ...my hand beckons me to procure pen and paper. the walls are all prepped no more need for a scraper.

so out pour the words, like a can of paint, flowing onto the 
paper smoothly, with no restraint.