WHEN THE WALLS CLOSE IN

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Submitted Date 07/20/2019
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They like to sit by your window

just inside the screened porch

with toothpicks dangling

and dips in.

 

Between murmurs,

they rock forward to spit

the gummed goop

straight onto the planks.

 

Like oils the layers build.

Create sticky stepping stones

straight

to your door.

 

Your neighbor's pie stays in her window – her porch is clean.

Her lawn is cut every Sunday.

 

The grass grows.

The grass is sheared.

They invite hatted men to set

and the murmurs take on some whisky.

Knees are slapped.

 

Houses close.

Dormant.

Except for twitching curtains,

reveal only darkness and two clutching fingers.

 

You moved your bed upstairs last summer.

Sweating your hair into part of your skin

watching the shadows move into the light outside your door.

Sounds of tins rolling from holed pockets

and rounding their way to a settled clatter,

now part of the oil tapestry.

 

Before you know it

you are chin-to-knees

in the closet

wondering where your neighbors took their furniture

and waiting for the door to be sealed with nicotine sap.

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