The atrium, she’s red and more than less empty,
Sealed with wallpaper crafted of stale periodicals from 2005.
Eager minds no longer pump across that threshold with a steady, polyrhythmic beat. In fact, there’s no beat at all.
Where vintage chandelier bulbs flickered once with make sure to slam the front door electrical shorts,
I open and close it silently
Unable to recall
When we’d leave little wordless notes and
When it mattered.
All those pheromones some
Diffused into the yard pollens and spores
are proof no one else cares anymore how
Those hand-me-downs and donations landed
Abandoned and scattered on the highway to
The remaining country she once replaced
Against a door
Creaks open to a foyer
Covered in obits and classifieds.
SWM seeking homeless SF – must have rhythm. Apply inside or mail your application to:
4454 S 6th Street,