Our flag rolls in the wind with a pleasant fabric clap
in some parallel to a reality that I inhabit
a voice that scampers like a mouse
through the caverns
of this great bungalow
A reflection of the memories
A whisper to the antiquities of all the people that have
lived here
they have been numerous and long
slipping around in
the walls at night searching for the morsels that patience generates
thoughtlessly they exist
as echoes of feelings linger
in the places that they don’t understand
specters of desires that once were held but have dissolved
into the landscape
as the mumbling noise
of the street codes for all kinds of sin
and none of us are above it:
she did it in the other room
while her surrogate children and her husband watched
television
presumably to thumb her nose at all the cheap pointlessness
one last time
in the same place, infected with the same disease
hearing the shrieks of the metal makers at night
I wonder if it was the mice in the walls
That coerced her over the edge
The little souls that enter your house at night taking all
that you have
Little vermin that rob you, bit by bit
