Transients

The house, I clean it empty.

The naked picture window stages, shows how

The hawk is feeding.

Shadows of light inside with me remember the sofa;

Squares indenting the carpet mark stances of table legs;

The traffic pattern is recorded in the lay of the rug.

If I'm color-blind enough, if I look,

The blood will be the color of grass.

There's grease behind the stove.

I smell falafel and ammonia when I clean.

It's only  natural:  hawks eat doves;

Families move where they can live.

A tiny jointed doll peeks from under where the stove is now.

I pull out the Jedi Master, he's lost an arm;

It's been long enough, surely the bleeding is done.

Stephen Riddle