#ahdgfsbv

The suburbs at night, like the other side of a painting.

A home under construction, wooden beams exposed
to the windy night, an owl squatting in the open attic.

The dogwood in the yard covered entirely by a tarp,
the tree looks like a clenched fist shot from the ground.

Leaning against the back door, a man hunches over,
pouring paint thinner through a piece of white bread
and into a mason jar under the shadow of a shadow.

A gust of wind brings a sudden sound, an ambulance
blaring down the silent street in one canvas of time,
a neon tube of red against the squares of darkness.

A piece of wet, doughy bread alone next to a door without a handle.
The night's hand lifts the tarp, it settling against the skeleton house,

loosing a hundred bats, hidden in the tree.