In the Summer and in the Fall
by Jess Dutschmann
This one time I rode a bus to work
and saw a house being demolished.
The house was torn apart from the outside
like a man ripping his own face off.
The house didn’t bleed--the leaves
weren’t falling yet. It was August.
The house remains a caved in
sink in the neighborhood's kitchen
into November. The leaves were russet
and gold and they fell into the core
of the house. I rode the bus to work and saw
the house bleeding colors into the rainy earth.
There became a jealousy, then, when I tried ending, alone:
I found I, too, needed others to half-break me,
leave me sitting wet and empty by the curb.