Leftover Child

Back in what’s left
of home turf
among abandoned houses
with lawns long ago
taken by tall mullein and
brittle brush.  
Tan faded curtains askew
in flyspecked windows — 

is that a slight movement
behind one? Did it stir?
That one, top left window in
that roof-to-ground shingled
gray house? Is it possible
that someone
lives there still? 

Someone alive in Her House?

Childhood stories
of Her House, house
of Old Lady Shady
come sifting back: she’d be
close to 130 by now
if she were alive
so it’s probably not either her

or her son, the Hog,
he’d be
long gone

which is good, good because 
those aren’t good stories. 

But someone’s in there,
now it’s certain;
there is a face
that’s not bothering
to hide itself,
a child’s face
looking out.
A thin face.
A blue face —

or instead, moonlight
playing on shadow fabric
and dirty glass.

Something’s
definitely moving,
but inside or outside?
Can’t tell; too many 
bad stories,
too much
moonlight,
too much
remembered 
filth makes it 
too easy to call up

a leftover child
from those ruins.