Stuff written while I should be working on my next novel.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
The house of bricks
Is haunted by the ghosts
Of straw and sticks,
In latter years the pigs could never sleep
For noises at the door,
Huffing sounds at midnight,
And the shrill scream in the kitchen chimney.
Finally they sold it to a deaf
Old woman trading down from a shoe,
After her children had left home,
She heard nothing, but sausages
Cooked in the kitchen never needed ketchup,
And whatever puffed there, huffed and puffed, alone.