A Poem for Today: My Ears Are Moors

My ears are moors

Wind whipping through

Whistling around

The corner

Of a manse

Snug in its mysteries

Smug in its openness,

A light warm in a window

No one can get to.

But the street is barren

A cutout from a film set

After hours

Some suburban sitcom

Facade 

Where no one lives a life

   All grey, but not

Alive grey, like my manse

Flat, never lived dust grey.

Except there is a mockingbird nest

The shout shrill like old women

Talking to their old men.

And there is a pile of disheveled rocks 

(Surely a child’s cairn)

In the center of cut and curbed grass.

And there are lights in the windows

On this street, too.