This House is Condemned

THIS HOUSE
IS CONDEMNED
sign,

Long since,
by small kids,

on a Saturday
afternoon dare.

Stolen,
then

Fought over

Oak tree,
in front yard,
inviting

heavy-laden,
with late spring

fresh leaves
and sun warm
mulberries

above an unkempt
drought blonde

mop of
a lawn

White
picket, once.

Now, grey
splinter.

Fence paling.

Drooping, split,
from rusted nail.

Falling,
to the center,

Of the
footpath.

As if,
placed there

In that,
exact position
by an unseen hand

Held under
a day-time ghost's
poltergeistical powers

Over objects,
or so,

It seemed,
to the kid

passing by,

brave
enough,

to remove

it from

the footpath.


And
then,

to raise
it.

In realisation,

of,

'Excalibur'.