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The Door to my Room is Ever Closed
The fan over head spins
gently, good for nothing but
making sounds.
So hot in my room.
Sweat falls in beads
down my neck and back.
The spackle on the ceiling
looks as if it could pop like
kettlecorn.
This leads to more high
expectations. 104 degrees
tends to raise everybodys
expectations of life;
they rise with the thermometer.
I keep my door closed
to the heat,
and stay out of life's kitchen.
