A dog barked
miles away.
A Cardinal nipped
close by.
Rabbits and squirrels,
fearless now,
spy us picnicking
in a land bereft
of humans.
A UPS truck
delivering nothing,
to nobody,
inches by silently,
stops,
and pops.
Thieves, perverts,
and Bible bangers,
have all disappeared
for the same place
the Ruskies flashed
and sold
leaving this
unfenced yard
unfenced
and unnoticed.
My tomatoes,
beats and cucumbers,
grow peacefully
as they did before
fumes and radios
disturbed them.
It’s all gone, almost.
Hopping life
and humming birds
released
from below
by a great migration
to the land
of the flat surface.
In 1959,
when the earth
was round,
my parents locked not
our house,
except on vacations,
Leaving
the basement door
ajar… just in case.
Kids didn’t have keys then
and were called
to the phone
by mothers and brothers
with carnival
barking voices.
Now, we lock the doors,
especially on vacation,
remotely,
if necessary, in a neighborhood
unpopulated
by the living
or the dead.
Ghosts
have it worst of all
as they have no one
to haunt
or trick,
or whisper
scary nothings to.
“They are all gone
but for spinning fingers.”
(sound ends)
Thus, the spirits
have moved
to the swamp,
to unused chimney tops,
barren fruit cellars,
and capped wells,
awaiting
the return
of candle light..