House To House
A salesman is going door to door.
He’s selling bottled rain, sniffed fingers
and seraphim-scented handkerchiefs.
A salesman, in an ill-fitting suit,
is selling love-powder and paper aqualungs.
A mouse’s shrugs. Dents in a bucket.
Bio-degradable emotion detectors.
The uninvited, leaning on your front door’s bell,
hauling a scuffed satchel, carrying snake-hips
and vaporous handles. Hair dye for the dead.
A swastika of smoking ashes.
Who’s selling two absolutes for a dollar,
the semi-divine, and storm windows too —
lest yon tempest offend thee.
The house with bones on the lawn.
The house with the hidden basement,
its spooks stowed in the web-ridden attic.
Where the nervous newspaper boy
refuses to deliver and it’s always dark,
windows dust-rimed and blacked-out,
the blinds drawn since Day One,
its flowerbeds filled with headless roses.
The house you rent by the minute,
its garden path cracked and gnarled,
its front door marked with a sign,
with, I suppose, the blood of a lamb.
And the only sound on the streets —
footsteps, fleeing in terror.
About Bruce McRae
Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 800 publications to his credit, including Poetry.com and The North American Review. His first book, The So-Called Sonnets is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit his website: www.bpmcrae.com, or ‘TheBruceMcRaeChannel’ on Youtube.