poem by Anitra L. Freeman
A dryad called from the wood -
those few birches the bulldozer missed,
straggling like unrazored whiskers
at the edge of town -
and all wood heard.
Shingles fluttered, eaves rustled,
doors sagged slightly,
through the town.
Door frames shuddered loose,
shrugged their shoulders,
stomped off toward the edge of town
on swinging legs.
Doors cracked their hinges,
slapped flat, and skidded off,
great escaped skateboards.
Banisters slid down off their posts,
slithered out the open doorway,
wound on down the road;
the posts followed
like falling, piling, leapfrogging dominoes
and the steps slinkied after.
Roofs cracked free of their nests and flapped away.
Each board of walls and floors broke loose,
shook free of paint and shambled off;
brick and stone and glass
were left naked and amazed;
and all of the people who never see anything
never knew anything happened.
© Anitra L. Freeman, Text and Graphics