My ancient home is
High above the bay
In Fall, I open up
All the windows
Air out the rooms from the
Stale heat of Summer
But none of the doors in my
Apartment latch
And with the windows open
It becomes a wind tunnel
And the wind plays percussion,
And the neighbours complain
But who am I?
And who are they,
To try to dictate when the
Bay wind, can play?
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