Shoebox

By Jerry E. Cornwell

Once you move to your trailer you won’t need a doorbell for visitors.

Your thin walls, rattling jalousie door 
jack-stand foundation and penniless psyche

vibrate at the slightest approach.

A soft rumble and dancing ceramic figurine

indicate the propane truck has arrived,

payment before delivery.

 The kazoo song of the kitchen window means the mail truck is lumbering

 toward you with the bills. 

Each popping paneled wall, cabinet tick and groan,

signify neighbors, storms, 

season change and repossession.

You’ll learn the character of the sheriff’s cruiser,
neighbor’s tractor, chainsaw

 and taunting children.

You’ll answer the door everyday

without surprise 

or pretend to be away.

You may cheerfully call,
“Come on in,” holding a shotgun 

but you will no longer need a doorbell.

While you lay in your darkened bed
awakening,

perplexed by an earth-shaking roar,

dismiss an oncoming freight train

or banshee howling.

A Lovington cyclone has found your home.