The Gray House

By Cliff Lake

 

The Gray House

 

The gray house.

You almost don’t remember it.

Not until you walk by.

Then it is too present.

It… shifts.

Not when you look directly at it, no.

But when you look away it… wobbles?

It shifts.

It settles, or slides, or judders, or

Crawls.

So hard to describe…

Sometimes when you and some friends

Have had just enough to drink,

You try to discuss.

You can’t get it exactly right…

And you always end up talking about the girl.

What was her name?

No one remembers that either.

Why?

She shifted.

And it took too much of her.

Including her name.

All that was left were the shoes.

Her shoes on the steps.

When you think about the shoes

You can almost see what she looked like.

Almost.

But the shoes everyone remembers.

They didn’t shift.

No one likes to walk past the gray house,

Not alone.

Because someone lives there.

Because someone lives there you have never met.

Because someone lives there no one has ever met.

You see them sometimes.

Not up close.

From blocks away: a black smudge.

You can’t keep your eyes on it,

The black smudge.

You can’t keep your eyes on it because,

Because.

It doesn’t move right.

It moves like it isn’t there.

Or it’s sometimes there.

Or it’s behind your eyes.

A black smudge that doesn’t move right.

You can’t keep your eyes on it, or you might…

Shift.

That’s why you don’t walk past the house alone.

Because they might come out.

Because they would invite you in.

And you would have to take your shoes off…

 

Cliff Lake 2/11/2023

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

Location: Dalton, MA, USA

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