The House Of Hours by R.T. Castleberry

High palms ride the wind,
high oaks shudder, shedding
leaves in the wake.
Brutalities of legacy and commerce,
eventual karma,
led to this flood-road estate,
wood and wire-trimmed paths lined
with satellite dish, children’s toys, trash.
Trenchcoat tied, torn by thorns,
I surrender to unease, to bad temper’s timing.
The blind man’s dog barks from
a diorama of coal and cratered windows,
snarls to the end of his leash,
his laughing owner’s arm.
I curse them from my doorway.
A musk of fire and chemicals masters the air.
Mimicking a movie
the moon patches through rain layers,
security tape slaps, clawed in a storm.
Stacked, sealed, lined in a hallway
27 boxes make a life.
I will build hours in this house through
novel’s notes, photos tiled in jangled sequence,
the arcane scrutiny of a captive’s language.

I am a co-founder of the Flying Dutchman Writers Troupe, co-editor/publisher of the poetry magazine Curbside Review, an assistant editor for Lily Poetry Review and Ardent. My work has appeared in Comstock Review, Green Mountains Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, RiverSedge, Caveat Lector and Your One Phone Call.

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