This stately home- I never see people there
but there’s corn on the door most of the year.

An old lonely look to it
even with over-used greenish
lion’s head knocker
to keep it company.

I wonder why I want to go inside, if the door
would be inviting as these children I hear…
Young children sad, old children alike in misery.

Let me in. I am cold.
My feet, worn. My fingers, blue.
My father yelled at me once for no gloves.
He’s an old doctor, might die soon.
Everyday he sees death, but is too busy
to think about it.
Everyday I’ve seen it in his blue fingers.

Somewhere behind this beautiful, rust colored home,
there must be a garden where children play,
where a dead animal is buried beneath them.

Look to this home,
the sky is listening, the snow is waiting.