Build more homes that resemble
ships. Put little doors in the backs
of rooms, with tiny steps that lead
into hidden chambers four or five
feet below deck. Remember the salt box,
the A-frame, and the foursquare,
the disappearing vessels of our dreaming.
Chair rails might establish a room’s
horizons, and we may linger there to chew
a thumbnail or smoke a cigar. But false
doors and drawers lead to wickedness.
Who fastens a handle where there is no opening?
Why not more round riveted windows
hinged to swing outward?
Why not another crow’s nest? I used to believe
brick smokestacks held back the sky.
See how they line the boulevards
with their dark distant profiles.
Aaron Brame is a former poetry editor of The Pinch. His poetry and prose appears in Lumina, Pidgeonholes, The Indianapolis Review, and Tupelo Quarterly, among other places. He is a middle-school educator in Memphis, Tennessee.