I am the blue house on the corner,
the Cape Cod no one lives in.
Some of my neighbors know that a person
died under my roof, was removed
boots first, but no one seems to know
if the death was by murder or natural causes,
by accident or on purpose.
I know the answer, of course, because I was there
on that day a soul left its body. I watched and felt
a 140-pound woman tumble down my stairs.
Now my spacious rooms are considered tainted.
No one wants to buy me and move in. I know
I am innocent of taking someone’s life. I am guilty only
of letting a stranger come through my door.
