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Front Door

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There is this house.
It sits on the corner of the street
And has been vacant for decades.
Day by day, it idles on
Staring into the pond
Where the geese rest their exhausted bodies.
It is the home of mothers
Whose babies grew to be giants
And whose dreams were stolen by homophobic strangers.
It is the home of lovers
Whose fantasies unfolded between the
White walls
And whose heads were shaved for protection.
It is the home of a lonely man nearing 90
Whose love was taken by the dawn
And whose knees are growing weaker
With the sound of children’s laughter.

There is this house.
It weeps in the night
And reaches out to every passing car.
Its windows send beams of moonlight
To the planes going far away.
With every hour, its foundation sinks into the fertile soil
Sheltering the earthworms.
Each morning, the sun awakes to the
Silent breath of the house
Whose staircases are slowly eroding
In the silence.
And the house is imploding.
And the roof is being stripped of its secrecy.
And the back porch is backing down.

So I sit on the sidewalk
And I touch my cheek to the driveway
Hoping to hear the sobs of the house
As it prepares for destruction.
Because the house cannot pretend anymore.
It will be destroyed, and there is nothing to be done
Except wait.
Not all bombs are bad
But the one that will eliminate this house
Is just a warning.
And the house whispers to those who dare to listen:

“Be bigger than the bomb.
Two stories isn’t enough to tell this story,
But it must be told
So travel the world and build nests in cornfields.
Let every turnpike be a city
And draw stars on sidewalks
Like a solid reflection in my skin.
Hire waitresses to serve happiness
In the hearts of starving children.
You know who you are,
So write your name in my cement
To plant a legacy.
I will not be here to witness the end,
But I will pray for the soldiers of the night.
Godspeed, and sweet dreams.”



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