A lonely ladder leans against a wall
Seemingly oblivious to its incongruence.
No workmen wander our halls,
No painters in their mocking whites.
We’ve simply no sufficient shed,
No refuge for our random tools,
So they loiter in our living room,
Damned Home Depot refugees.
Still, the top’s toward Heaven,
Though a ceiling seals it away.
So I lean, and loaf, uselessly shiny,
Stretching my arms to only air.
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