stacks of books, and no one to read them,
home full of children, and no one to feed them.
room full of tears, and no one to weep them,
scattered secrets, and no one to keep them.
the simper of an unfed toddler,
thirsty poems of a weary traveler.
a timber wolf’s restless howl,
a young man’s loveless scowl.
the village spirit, widowed at sixteen, lived a hundred years,
young and alone, in her husband’s home, a pyramid of fears.
locked herself in for eternity, bred and chatted with mice,
a ghost in children’s stories, summoned when named thrice.
a child’s roving eyes, enters a store, hunts for a toy,
Oh no! His kindergarten crush. And talking to a boy!
pulls his socks up, wipes his nose, stately though stout,
approaches the boy, screams and pokes his eyes out.