No corners—it’s too dark for them
The grass remains cut, only because the bank sends someone.
If you were to violate this no-man’s land and peek inside for discards,
Nobody ever gets off the 6:24 bus
That stops on week nights at a faded aluminum marker before the house.
Up and down the pavement, parents call in
The basketballs and jump ropes before dark.
Walk the street between one sad face and another.
You will know why no one moves into this house.
Tonight the figure of a cat can be glimpsed under one of the working street lamps,
Not needing to bed down in the home from which it strayed,
Because it is starting to find its biggest prey.
This poem was published in issue VIII of the Heron Clan anthology.
May 14, 2020