Number 16: Scary Poetry Gong

The House Begs to Speak


Soffits grant permission,
gutters open the floor
pitched roof provides a platform.

Draped in black towels
days after Halloween
the children tumble
from heaving orange pumpkins
treats and wrappers caught
in their teeth, a low crackle
creeping between stained lips.

An empty apron slides
out the open front door
boney skeleton close behind.

Broom handle pokes,
prods words refusing to stand
at attention. No crowd
gathers under the chimney’s
panicked smoke. Neighbors
char dinner in backyards
knee-deep in soft root
vegetables and dripping leaves.

Glinting silver spatula curled
in long-stemmed hand—
a wicked knuckle microphone
shoved through cob-webbed window--
when will someone speak?
Bats hang right-side up
in anticipation. Witches
dressed as church-ladies
drop from the sky.
Snow begins to fall.

If the mailman leaves
a match, flames will lick
our faces, draw our tongues
out in the haunted open.