bones on the walls, bird and rodent
bodies littering the mantel above
the fireplace, on shelves, a few
in the kitchen. no one in the neighborhood
knows he started fires as a child
wherever he could. but maybe they
could guess he bloomed late. some
way he intones casual words with a
with modest surprise, as if he can’t
believe humans use them this way:
‘good luck,’ and ‘be careful’ and
‘I love you,’
be careful, yes, in his domain. the cute
kitchen with the dead and stuffed,
where do those stairs lead? ‘the basement,’
oh, but we don’t need to go down there.
no, but you could see it sometime,
if you’d like.