Amand Garnet Ruffo
In The Yard of the Haunted House
In the yard of the haunted house,
broken winos yell through broken windows.
Sharp mouths
and bodies like punctured balloons
sputtering air,
zigzagging along the ground
like they don’t belong anywhere.
Behind the abandoned yard, hedges the height of trees,
a blaze of pods and yellow petals.
Where those of us brave enough
catch bees on sunny Saturdays.
Snap jar lids over them,
lock them behind glass,
holding the sting
to our ears.
I can still see him, uncle broken man.
Dark head out the smashed window
while I keep my own head down,
keep to the far side of the road,
do my best to ignore him.
As he shouts
“I know you!”
Shouts his word arrows
through me.
Some tire of the game,
open the lid of their jar and run for their lives.
Others forget or neglect and let the busy sounds melt
inside the glass, while some
maliciously blow cigarette smoke
into the punctured top
to comatose
their helpless captives.
I have never lived through an earthquake. But I found this poem instructive.