VA Wiswell
Old House
We told them, reservation after reservation, year after year,
the story of our nosey old house,
how it refuses to keep secrets,
how it spreads rumors like butter over toast
The rooms, we said, are speakers bouncing stories from one ear to the next
In its bones, we cautioned, lives a memory of every word ever hurled
This nosey old house, we explained, is a streaming service
delivering years of questionable content,
requested
or not
Forethought, we advised, and discretion are the best weapons against its hungry eyes and eager ears
Our words were meant as a pillow, told kindly to guest after guest, a soft comfort offered
to yield rest
Somehow, though, our advice became a rock,
always tossed into a bottomless pond and forgotten
leaving us
wide
awake, midnight after
midnight, and
aghast, day after
day,
two unwitting witnesses
bearing witness to the
hushed lives,
the salty moonlit laughter,
the cross words served over crosswords and tea,
and the dewy-mouthed, early-morning moans
of the invited strangers inhabiting
our
tattle-tale house.
