A Moving Poem

At the end, the house

looked like it had gotten out of the house

and made us chase it through municipal

flower beds and culverts, maybe a lake,

before we dragged it home and watched it shake

itself all over itself. The moon was full

as moonyfish. The drawers

brimmed with busted plugs and other drawers’

handles. Splitting up the batteries

was easy, as we’d shopped exclusively

to match our blood types. Did you see the shrinking

larvae in the light bulbs? I was thinking,

beneath our silver school

of moon, about that short you made in school:

the windy-day pedestrian whose cap

went blustering off his head and through the door

of Lily’s Lingerie. Hard to be sure

if it was terror, shame, or some proud clap

of snobbishness that kept

him on the sidewalk, rooted as a kept

woman, but he could not venture in.

Beside the slogan-spangled mannequin

(“Our underthings will not be undersold”),

he shifted in his shoes. The credits rolled.