Susan Rich

(Boston, MA)

After You've Gone, The House


Falls deep into disarray; dishes
cleansed by the cat's rough tongue -

his whiskers skate along the dinner plate's
gray rim; soon pyramids of underwear

rise above the hallway's long horizon.
Days I stay indoors answering to no one.

Seasons change, change back, unfinished
rooms, half-painted, hold no door frames.

Light bulbs die, the wood stove's lacking fire;
some days you call, the voices overlap

trapped along a wire: hello / good-bye/ hell hole.
The lettuce leaves and worm bin mock desire.

Submitted: Saturday, July 23, 2005
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