Garden work’s dreadful,
Harvesting rusty razors,
My hand's killing me.
About the Creator
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When the Shelter Closes
Across the street from my house, a man slept under a tree, his dog by his side. My first, naive thought: he must be traveling through. But he kept coming back, often sleeping there during the day. Then it hit me—that person might not have a home.
By Bride of Sound2 days ago in Humans
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