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.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s