Small House

There is a drunken, slack jawed house singing with the curb out of step and a man staring in the window between, this dialogue, the lines dancing a little, lousy and happily. He doesn’t shift at the firetrucks sweating up the street line, just marvels at the drowsy doorknob, its terrific refusal to move.

The door is hatcheted, the inside bleeding out, and the fire here is broken and down the bathroom hall there is just a woman puddled in her tub and outside there is just a man, a doorknob twitching on the steps, the slow folding gaze, the dark-housed town snapping shut around it.


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