poem for the day: the house

This is not one of my micropoems. What can I say. It came to me whole like this. Sure, I could have broken the lines up. Three lines today and three tomorrow and that would have fit my criteria for a micropoem. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this was one poem and not two. Anyway, the thought came to me that houses, haunted or otherwise, are like people. They have their own personalities.

I throw the bed covers
off my sleepy body,
feed the cat her morning grub,
setting the house in motion.
The house resists. Like me,
it wants one last doze.

The Woman in the Park

From her bench in the park, the woman looked into the camera. It was not a stare, just a look. History stamped her face with all its sorrows and its joys.

Her hair now turned grey and thinned was once a full and a solid auburn. In those days, it hung down to her waist. Her forehead wrinkled, her skin now tough from all those days she spent in the sun. Her temple carried a large splotch of yellow. Her eyelashes had thinned like her hair. Only her left ear heard the sounds of the world around her. Both her eyes were a deep blue and she was blind in the right one.

A mole rested just above her lips. Her nose slightly bent from a break in her youth. Her left nostril was slightly bigger than her right one. Her chin was small but so was her mouth. She reached up and stroked her jaw as if she were remembering some long-ago boyfriend who kissed her cheek, then that small Southern mouth. She had been loved once. And that was all that matter to her. Her name was Sara and she had once been happy.

She smiled at the photographer. He snapped her picture, thanked her and walked away. They were two strangers who had encountered each on a Saturday afternoon in the park.

He went off to photograph others. Sometime later he decided he wanted to tell her something. Sara was gone from the bench.

The next morning Sara’s daughter, Margaret, found her mother dead in her bed, a peace on her face, a smile on her lips. That last photograph had been the gravy on the mashed potatoes. Somewhere someone would see the picture, maybe hundreds of someones, and they would love that face as the photographer had.