I'm back in that one-horse (no horse) town,
That quiet town,
That ghost town.
I've returned wild-goose fashion,
I really never left.
Our house there is home, sweet home,
Only now there is a wall missing,
And the sycamore tree is growing inside the living room.
The crab-apple tree is growing in the living room.
(And I can't understand why we didn't have it this way before. Its perfect.)
The cats are inside.
I and the two cats move around in a circle,
A curious dance,
And there is something wrong with one of them.
Because of this, I try to hit it with my broom,
But the cat is always out of reach.
Its darkening so fast, and there is someone else in the room,
Always just out of sight,
In the kitchen, or behind the sycamore.
Perhaps it is my Father, but I don't think so.
I move about in the yard-room,
Turning on the lamps,
And each time I believe I have them all lit,
The room is in darkness again.
Its very dark now, darker than before.
There is a doll in the closet with human hair.
There are two pairs of eyes in the closet.
They shine out-four bright discs.
Perhaps it is the cats, but I don't think so.