Bone Pile

My neighbors have eyes like binoculars.
They’re trained here. Mine are
telescopes. Aware, clear, my
vision never sleeps. My neighbors
are important. They hum like engines.

I hate outside. It’s the floor of
an amphitheater. And I’m the one
the lions want. The hanged man.
The con in the cage at the crossroads.

There’s an explanation.
Gum wrappers in the gutter, that
wrinkled envelope in the parking lot:
they fell from someone’s hand. Every
scrap is scanned. Somewhere a piece of
paper is scratched with answers.

I hate inside. It burns. My brain buzzes
like a hornet in a plastic cup. The water
in the shower is a gesture.
Meaning hemorrhages in the air. Shoes
knock at the stairs.
I stare out the window.

I know there’s a key.
My arms stab closets, coat pockets, garbage bags.
Some clue is here. It’s clear. I know.

My house is a bone pile. I look
for the trace teeth, some red smear.
Some expected bite of meat.
It’s clear. I see. I know. I hear.