My lots of Metal, Wood, and Fired Clay

Parking lots with their harbored
doors, each metal out and in a
seeking, find home somewhere.
Tasked, that if I had loved enough
to turn the key, then home would
be behind that fabled door, a room
with a draft that fires with arms
could forever warm. That hypnotic
place I would not run, but sit and
mumble “Mom Mom Mom,” my
stainless harbor of cabins filled
and trains that all ceased to have run,
as tracks were not needed and weeds
took the lots of metal inlayed doors.

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