A Tired House | Poem
Article voiceover
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.