|Expecting a weary father to return home|
Vacated houses are like old friends;
stare at you with doubt.
May be in fear of the owner,
an unpaid debt, a ball which I had
bounced on its walls.
But, for every walk in that road,
we stare at each other.
The house has been plastered since,
remodeled, and given a shining paint.
But, i am sure, it still carries the smell of
my sweat, the creepers infront of the house
has curls like my mothers hair, the streetlights
are still expecting a weary father to return
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