The house on the corner used to be yellow
then it was pink and then it was blue and one day it was painted gray.
There were cherry trees out front and a holly tree out back
and a little grave by a fountain full of frogs.
The Writer who lives there never comes out
of the house that is now painted red.
There are curtains in the windows that are always closed
and the swing on the porch creaks when it rocks
like bones carefully finding their way
on worn wooden steps
up from the basement
of a house
that used to be yellow
and is now painted red.