Look to the first row. You’re standing in it.
Call in the next thirty minutes. We silence the TV when we hear the knock. Yellow papers left flapping against the door as we peek from behind coral curtain rims. On the first day, vacate the house. On the second, I’ve never felt more miserable than now. By the third, the Sheriff invades the premise, then the poem. It’s the type of wood that carries a prominent echo. It’s the hard knock. It’s gazing at orange lily pistils until the engine huffs away.
Artist’s Note: At this moment, I would like to make a plea to save my home, meaning an introduction to dying dogwoods and Plexiglas. Or, what I mean is, my doorstep across your newspaper, D-2. Acoustic birds calling me home. Rhythmic knocks like laughter. Grass blades as evidence for good behavior. God, the Sheriff’s note shivered off white paint. God, what a waste of space.