A House with Wood Walls

There’s a house with wood walls

On a high grassy knoll,

Wreathed in dull, bluish mist.

The night sky has not a single star.

The rooms shift and doors change,

And once you are in,

There is no exit. Never was.

There are tall men in suits

Who are stern

And tell you not to touch the food.

Though it smells so good,

And can be found in every room.

Wisps of steam floating upwards, delicious tendrils.

It is windy,

And a long lake laps at the kitchen floor,

Over black-and-white, candle-soft tiles

There is a ferry,

If you would like to cross.

If you can avoid the clammy hands of tall men,

Perhaps the attic has a way out,

But the too-small hatch is so high,

And the ladder is so broken.

My hands are full of splinters.

And nobody I love lives here.

But don’t, never, not-even-thinking-about

THAT CORNER.

The one in the dark.

With nothing in it at first.

That corner is not safe.