On My Street

There is a house with windows the sad bruised eyes of a whore,

A shabbily rotted wooden door wailing like a taciturn baby’s mouth.

A Cyclops house with half a face, rolling out a gravel tongue;

Some rusted caravan attached to its rear like a malignant tumor.

A house with a mirror door, a manicured lawn and trimmed trees;

Envied by all on this street among many we call by our histories.

A walled-in house with spikes of glass fragments atop to deter birds or sordid men;

Standing on a corner, flanked by derelict shacks and wobbly dog pens.

On my street, garbage tombs scatter on dusty pathways, strangled by time and

Disused doors are bolted shut, distilling resemblances of stubborn gags.

There’s a house with a rooftop veiled in canvas anchored by broken wheelbarrows,

With four doors precariously smashed in places where windows once panelessly stared.

There’s a roofless house, abandoned and torched now housing the forsaken;

A house of gang brands and defecation, weeds cracking concrete walls frailly.

A house in company of eleven car wrecks, oil strewn grounds with carcasses of engines;

Glass doors riddled with bullet-holes and careless burglar bars; unshackled pets yawning.

A house of tombstones, grinders and sand papers carving last minute memorials,

Ever drenched in white water and soot, as stones cry before their bereaved.

A house sporting colors of games and allegiances to what’s not at stake,

A house of stolen gnomes and drooping sculptures behind serrated wire meshes.

A house of assorted bricks patched together unevenly, a house of two elderly sisters who pray

Guarded by giant dogs and a riddle of a garden in an arid clime and radioactive soil.