Found a bunch of somewhat-weird poems I’d never typed up. Here’s one. No idea what I was thinking when I wrote it, so have at it:


The day I stumbled into the house you built,
it was a labyrinth—
Chinese boxes
or Russian dolls,
each growing smaller
until I disappear.

You can get lost in a house like that.

I wonder about the rat.
Did he starve
when there was no longer any malt?

I could never begin to clean a house like yours,
all lopsided,
falling in on itself.
It makes me angry.

You should hire
the third pig,
the one with the bricks;
he knows more
about solid things
than you.

As it is
you trap people in here—
all the stairs,
windows that go nowhere,
the locked back door.

Analyze This!