Aug 272017

There is something not
right about the house.
It is too tall or too thin
or the walls are at
improbable angles.

Nothing seems as it should,
and nobody who enters
is ever seen leaving.

You can hear them go in,
then a cry,
some clattering,
a groan.

The neighbors say the
house always was there.
Some say the Germans built it,
some the English.

You never can tell
whether people really vanished.
Maybe they left by an attic,
or a basement.

Perhaps there is a back door
and they rejoined the crowd in front,
pretending dismay
at their own disappearance.

I believe each of us
will enter the house one day.
It is possible that some of us
already have, but do not remember.

I was mistaken,
that is not a
crowd in front.
It is a queue, and
I am next.