THE HOUSE IS SMILING

With Oz, himself, on the uppermost floor
and a mummy guarding the front door;
With a pair of eyes as the shifty tenant
of the second floor, a kitty pregnant?
Perhaps. But with a skeletal pirate
and webbings of spiders and spiders
for decor, and shingles in the highest
state of shaggy, the array of insiders
within this sorry frame, whose pathetic
lawn is in dire need of being weeded,
whose roof can barely counter energetic
lightning upon its dilapidated heedings,
whose shutters would rather fall apart
inside itself rather than hold its own,
with its tithers that withers my hearts’
innermost jitters from the fidgety boned
bitterness that stems on wishes to implore
leaves from my fear of haunted housings,
branched from a quiet knock on the door:
the eventual sounds of silenced shoutings
is the reason to why
I refuse to even try
to knock on that door
with Oz himself, on the uppermost floor.