by William Haas
Blood-orange poppies fill the flower bed where a plastic sign reads FOR SALE BY BANK. Falling in fistfuls, rain washes windows. I nudge my face to the dusty pane. The furniture has been cleared out. Drywall remains as crumbs on the carpet. Electrical wiring is stripped. Post boards mark the outlines of rooms. Two saw horses stand in a shaft of light. On the plank in between sits a plastic toy. Past the empty rooms, plywood and fiberglass insulation spill through the shack’s broken window, expelled like herniated intestines. Outside, a crow clutches a foil wrapper between talons and electric wire. The black bird’s beak nurses nutrients from smudges of corn syrup and traces of oats.