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.