Poem By Pearl E. McCray

The cold house
The bare floors
The hungry days
The hanging doors Food that was scarce
Clothes that were torn
There were times you wished
You were never born. Fires burning
In the big fireplace
Cooking your legs, arms
And burning your face. Kerosene lamps
Burning on the shelf
Sometimes you try to read
In spite of yourself. There just wasn't enough space
You could call your own
Sometimes you could find a corner
And call it your private home.

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