​Blue, I Think
published The Blue Nib Literary Magazine

As if the house had stumbled
long ago and never recovered
it sloughed to the right

gutters drooping
windows yawning
drainpipes brittle claimed by

spindly, crunchy, dead wood and
a truck ancient in its green rust
settled in for the last days

shuffling, hunched
skirts dragging hems frayed
she urged herself up the crumbling stoop

pausing to flick rotten fruit
from the landing
with the tip of her cane

I glanced carefully side-long and secret like
catching her front door mid slam
long peels of paint falling loose

dried out and wrinkled
revealing what used to be underneath
Blue, I think

I crossed against the light
at the desolate intersection and
I didn’t look back.

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