There’s a room where flies linger, and feelings gather like ants on a honeyed saucer. It’s a place that never calls, but all paths lead to, and on whimsy they march. I can never think of words to call it, never think of the proper definition that can fit like a key to this niche. It just rots and gathers gravity.
It sat in the corner of an abandoned building at the end of a no outlet street kids used to play on. They would always avoid it, told so by worried mothers and half-false superstition. Treated with apathy and towel wringing, it just sat on the corner, yawning musty under pale, clouded light.
One day, its breadth stretched its legs a bit further out and a boy tripped into its yard, chasing a stray cat.
He was small, easy to miss, one of many siblings and bright eyes in a shadowed face. Details of this yard flew like iron filings to a magnet, all staccato motion—patches of chalky dirt—three story arts and craft—every window with plum curtains—basement window open. The cat was forgotten, a messenger cut loose of its message. The boy palmed the rail up strangely even steps, smooth dry wood at hand. The porch was strangely wide, used to many people, the stage to the wooden masterpiece of the door. This was lost on the boy, who absorbed only the rich cherry lacquer and the door knocker, a goat with a ring in its mouth.