The Dirty House Is Number 3

The Dirty House at Number 3

It had curtains that never quite closed

and a front step that leaned like it was tired

of holding up secrets

No one knocked there

Not the postman, not the kids

Not even the meter man,

he left the bill on the gate and walked off fast

It smelled of damp and frying fat

and something no one could name

And when the wind caught just right

it dragged the story halfway down the street

They said a woman lived there

or what was left of one

Stringy hair, skin the colour of too much tea

fingernails stained from roll-ups and regret

She used to be something,

not someone, something.

The kind of pretty that got her into locked cars

and trouble she didn’t ask for

but didn’t say no to either

Now, she talked to the telly

and kept the curtains twitching

as if she had enemies

but forgot what they’d done

People said

that house is a warning

but no one finished the sentence

And sometimes

when the moon was bold

you’d see a figure in the garden

barefoot in the mud

digging like it mattered

No flowers grew

no grass survived

just her and the dirt

like old friends not speaking anymore

They never found a body

never called it crime

She was just gone

And the house at number 3 stayed dirty

but quieter

like even the walls had given up

For sale sign never came

just yellow tape

and a skip out front filled with memories

no one wanted to claim

Now the kids tell stories,

they dare each other to touch the bricks

say you can hear her coughing

if you stand still long enough

But the grown-ups

they just cross the road

still pretending

they never saw her.