curves

curves
by brandon s. roy
This is a ghost house. The haunted place bathe in blinking street light and darkness. A cheap place. The souls of strangers wander through here. Shadows don’t live here. This is a vacant place. The earth has taken this place back and claimed it as its own. Sometimes smoke leaves the roof but no one lives there.People make the sign of the cross as they walk by. This is an unholy place. The sidewalks nearby bare franticialy craved symbols and figures to ward off evil, the old people say. They rub their thumbs into their palms stare at the broken glass. The wax of candles lit with trembling fingers, prayers uttered to St. Nicolas in vain. Long ago this house took an oath to remain there forever.