open house

there is no door.
this is where the wind goes 
to put up her feet & watch 
a soup-filled television. this face
could be yours. so could this window
& this white picket dog & this
tea pot with a picture of a husband
printed on the belly. sometimes 
a baby wanders through just like
a passing balloon. you can pretend
it's here if you want it and pretend
it's gone if you don't. that's the thing
about scent. there is no escape.
this has been contagious. more 
& more open houses & more & more
people standing outside with 
lottery tickets in their mouths.
we are waiting to see if we can
nest for the night. i invent a daughter
to go & collect twigs & scraps. 
let's be love birds in the sense that
as soon as a gun shot is fired
we are flying away. they don't plant
fruit trees in cities because they want
us to buy shovels & dig in the earth.
sometmes i grow a grave site
by accident. where else though 
are the rabbits going to go? 
everything in this world is free
to look at or at least that is 
what they'll tell you. as a child
we would go to the white computer
world just to see everything we 
could not have. this is no different.
look & look & look. this could
not be yours. a bowling ball
rolls across the floor. a parrot bathes
in the sink. in the basement
there is an old bust of elvis. 

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