r u s h

:  c h r i s t o p h e r    l o c ke

The rusted screen door,
its springs a sonata
of ruined pianos,
opens the morning
as mother lifts windows
into stoic yawns, letting
night’s remnants fizzle
into the coppering air.

Stacked bowls rise
from the sink like vertebrae
as a leaking faucet plucks
the air with its neurotic tick.

Sprinklers hiss counter-
clockwise as father steps
to avoid the excess, scooping
the paper from the darkening walk.

And unseen, behind a barn
behind a house, the youngest
boy flicks match heads into dust,
into twigs piled sad as mouse bones
saying "I’m going to burn you
all down," an orange rush of heat
suddenly beautiful in his eyes.

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