The Visitor

I tiptoe across the rotting porch,

carefully feeling each floorboard

with my feet before I tread.

Thick, mahogany curtains

glare at me disapprovingly

from behind windows

like a cross neighbor.

I touch the rotting door

that is missing one of its hinges,

and it creaks open.

A crotchety old wardrobe meets my gaze,

the paint smeared on its doors

warning me to turn back.

I shiver as I breathe air that hasn’t been

breathed in decades, then I venture further,

as welcome as a cockroach

scuttling into a dark corner.

The living room, eerily clean,

beckons me on my left.

A menacing leather armchair

faces the cold fireplace;

its armrests are daggers of destruction.

I sit on the sofa instead, wondering.

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