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Poetry and Medicine
January 8, 2014


JAMA. 2014;311(2):204. doi:10.1001/jama.2013.236686

Nowhere to breathe
in the still smoky parlor,
windows stuck shut
watching our claustrophobia
with closed eyes.

Each closet holds a life
of musty towels, yellowed sheets,
clothes holey with cigarette burns.
Someone says it's a miracle
the house never burned down.