Two poems in 45 minutes today. Boo.
Haunted House the wind charges down-alley kicking newsprint an[d]other penumbra bric[a]brac over the gate through a cleft chin and past gabled cheeks. the old empty house buckles [down] as first rain drops plaster yesterday’s headline: [unreadable] to a shu[td]er a drop of red drips around the edge where inside someone, 73.5% cacao with grime, shoes and shirt stuffed with obituaries has just lit a bit of fire.
Haunted House They say the house has eyes, which isn’t a surprise, as any eight year old could tell you. They say a baseball hit too hard, always ends up in that yard, and I’ve surely lost a few. I once dared my friend Billy, who thought I was silly and didn’t have a clue, to go ring the bell, and then come back and tell if all the tales were true. When he returned unhurt and unburned right then I learned that sometimes it’s not the house that is haunted but you.