PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Weather is always dismal at that house.

A damp cold fog fully envelops it

and strangles the slight, slanted light that slides

out of roiling and tumescent clouds.

Beyond the line of sight, but not of sound,

tides loudly crash upon huge, ancient rocks.

The township deputies avoid this pkace.

Pizzas are not delivered this far out.

The backyard of this once lavish estate

is scarred with many spots where grass is sparse

(the lime's effect, perhas).  And underneath

that shoveled grit are severed limbs without

torsos; and torsos without heads or limbs;

and certain of the heads have been effaced

as if flesh had been sanded from the bone

of skulls with shattered jaws and craniums:

unlucky passersby---hitchikers, tramps,

an adolescent runaway or two;

some anxious addicts earning the quick fix;

and, once in a great while, a prostitute;

all throwaways, discarded from the town,

and disregarded in their agonies.

But none of this has been disclosed to you,

who came here fully fledged to make a sale;

to demonstrate this servce as a most

convenient and remarkable asset.

In answer to your quick, staccato knock

jaunty and cheerful, like your attitude,

the plod of heavy footsteps draws nearer;

a shadow passes by the front door's glass,

a pair of eager, feral eyes peers out;

a ghastly voice bids you  "Welcome.  Come in.'