The wind breathes sour milk
and men's cologne
through my open window
I talk endlessly to a six year old child
He's small and intelligent
so is my hand
The gates to this house stay open
letting travelers and sinners
stray from reality for some time
They march through tiled hallways
in high heels and rotten soled boots
He's her lover, her brother, her father
She's nameless to him
I told her to stay awhile
rest her high heeled shoes on my porch
