Open slow the squeaky screen door
into the hush of a strange house
the weight of dimmed light, dark
drapes, corded rugs. The slow smell
of strange cooking, the ticks and clicks
of a house moving, easing itself daily
onto its foundation. The beginnings
of noise. A phone ringing, a voice
answering, the vestibule narrow
and lined with boots, umbrellas.
Who creeps into a neighbor’s house?
Such a scared and curious mouse to steal
a sense of how other people live. The floor
slopes so gently she presses against the wall
tastes the wallpaper’s raised roses squished
against her mouth like an old uncle’s kiss.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 2.
Mary Wallach is a poet, writer and psychotherapist in New York City. Her poetry has appeared in The Mississippi Review, Mockingheart Review, Triplopia and The Shangri-la Shack. You can access Garrison Keillor reciting her poem, “Why I Don’t Write Autobiographical Poems” in the archives of his Writer’s Almanac website.
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