The Dead House

Fireplace blocked,

sealed with

cardboard, and taped.

Furniture trashed,

paneling smashed.

On the second floor

mid-corridor,

a rotting cat

furry and fey

in a nap

of  gore

glued flat

to a spot

on the floor,

ether-sweet

in a frieze of decay,

up-staring, popeyed,

pissed.

The screens I installed

belled out, belled in.

Every window

cracked, broken,

or forgotten, left open.

The in-gusting Atlantic

left smelling sick.

A shade softly crashed

on a sash,

finish nails and a bare

molly bolt fanfared

me from the gloom.

Google the address:

from outer space

it’s a bare green blot,

treeless, erased,

terns where we made love,

gulls where we fought.