Poet

POET

She is a lonely brick house at the end

of a long driveway lined with trees

that capture the wind

in patches of brittle red leaves.

Inhale and exhale like fire.

I can hear it inside her

wrenching nails

from the boards in the windows.

The nails come out squealing,

dust pours from the cracks,

sunlight finds its way inside

and spills across the grimy floor

like bleach.

I press my ear

to the grainy wood

of an old white door,

straining to hear

the muffled footsteps

of the poem inside.