Flowing current,
Soon to bring me happiness,
Heat or entertainment,
Comes through two tall, thin men
With hands towards the heavens,
Screaming at each other;
How each is tired of living,
In that small igloo.
Or is it three disapproving faces,
Not excited to have metal prongs,
Shoved through their eyes,
And down their throats.
Or two bright windows,
Above a welcoming door,
On the best block of the neighborhood,
Each house eerily similar.
All of this,
On the canvas,
That is my only outlet.
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