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Victorian In Nature

On a corner in any small town there stands a three-story house, Victorian in nature with scaled shingles, roof finials and a wrap-around porch,  that in its time towered over surrounding cottages and shanties, casting an imposing shadow at dusk to those who promenaded around its hand-wrought iron fence, a house built over a century ago from stone quarried and hard maple downed from nearby excavations by men traveling through,  picking up day jobs to later fill their bellies with food and drink in dark taverns, denizens of needfulness, where stray dogs scavenged tossed-away bones from the sawdust floor and cool-eyed women in tight fitting bodices sized up each man, taking a quick inventory of how easily he might be willing to part with cash in the least amount of time and conversation, some men with missing fingers, heavily stained teeth who had, over years of building, developed remarkable talents, working lovingly with wood, sizing up grains, sanding, varnishing, turning rough planks into delicate spindles and silken bannisters that felt velvet to the touch in the imposing Victorian house, those same men, who, in the blistering noon-day sun, sneaked a smoke while greedily eying any female, large or small, old or young, black or white who trundled down the dusty road or, better yet, crossed so near that her female musky scent ignited a rush of sexual images hidden, teased by billowing skirts that swept and rustled, reminding him of how a woman's curled fingernails rasped across his back as she lay beneath him with legs wide open, making him hard and wishing for thirty seconds to lower his pants and stroke himself before someone called out his name drawing him out of his reverie to help carry pipes, planks, cast iron stoves, boilers, tubs, materials to this day that retain some of his markings, fingerprints, DNA should it be called upon to name a nameless person, a transient, who worked so many years ago in a small town at the big Victorian home that still solidly stands.

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