OPTIONAL POETRY

It’s Guynes Street, still. The house has the same  flat bricks as my grandparent’s place, painted filigree iron to hold up the carport, honeysuckle bushes,          and no front door. Inside, they’ve keptthe old decor:          spinet piano, doilies         on the couch, china         in the sideboard.  It’s all too fragile, knowing what I know:         the curtains too […]