Old Suburb

I recognise every crack in the footpath
The houses once real and coloured
now like old photographs

I tremble

The ghosts lie inside
I walk faster in case the past grabs me
and pulls me into it's sickly trap

The old widows (those that are left)
sit on their porches to catch the breeze
that eddies down the street
They remember me

I hurry away

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