this house is empty.

this house is emp
ty.

this house is ours.
it belongs to us and thus
it belongs to everyone
but tonight
it belongs to you
and me and you.
the three of us
pioneers blazing down
the dharma oregon trail.
(the walls
they shine with tealights
and silence
on bookshelves we will fill
with our minds
our minds filled to the brim
with our hearts
our hearts filled to the brim
with the tealights
and the shine in each other’s
eyes
like the forming
of a new constellation.)

this house is emp
ty.
the oven is clean.
the fridge is barren.
there are no footprints
on the backporch,
no stains in the sinks
no nails sticking out from the
listening walls
for us to hang our stories
on.

no.

we had everything that night.
and when big men
in big trucks come
and take away our emotional beds
our mental furniture
our dirty laundry
our fridge mag
nets
scattered fridge magnets
of random words
of random nothings that we
rearrange into random some
things
and the goblin guests re
arrange into random some
things and the big men
in big trucks take it all away
out in the great digital ether
outside our crooked door
when we are left
with dust
and torn up linoleum
and the ghosts that were here before us
that we danced with
in orange lighting
at something o clock in the nothing
when we are left with nothing
and this house is emp
ty
we will have everything we’ve always had
and we will never leave.

we do not step backwards through time
we dance, we grape
vine, we sit in the darkness of time
where there are no lamps, no books, no clocks
and we laugh at ourselves
forever.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “LAUGHTER AT A FUNERAL”

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

1 thought on “this house is empty.”

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