Today was a long day
for the house,
and I wonder
if the house cares,
and why I care
so much for the house.
Strangers
ran, ran, ran |
up and down
her grass skirt,
ferrying boxes
and groceries
in white plastic bags.
Ding-dong,
ding-dong,
ding-dong
burps the house.
Every time
the front door,
back door,
side door
has a visitor.
Ding-dong,
bark-bark,
scuttle-scuttle,
and the dogs
are amuck in
pitter-pattering
muddy paws
on the windowsills,
bow-wowing
and grr-owling
at something
somewhere
they cannot see.
Shut up,
you no good,
good-for-nothing,
damn ruckus
son of a bitch.
Oops, says the house.
B-b-but I-I-l
(wasn't talking to you).
The house goes on,
sweating,
ringing,
lighting,
airing,
carrying
the calls,
the screens,
the voices,
the slides,
the deals,
the decks,
the demos,
the scenes,
the internet
through her veins,
out her walls,
down her fiber cables
drilled through her foundation,
buried in her mud,
driven beneath her drive
and across the world
and back into the walls
and veins
of similar houses
having similar days.
By the time the day is cast,
the tenants make their rounds
door to door,
seal to seal,
shutting,
locking,
double cocking,
arming each entry
till the place is
blinking red
and blinking blue
with small sensors
and beacons
and sirens
all waiting to scream,
INTRUDER, INTRUDER, INTRUDER!
Except she never does.
No one intrudes at night.
Only during the day.
