Eviction

Since mid-March and the outset of the plague
when I mounted narrow attic stairs
wasp corpses and stink bug armor
crunching beneath my feet
to sort through the boxes
five years abandoned since our move,
I’d been nursing denial.

For five long months after my vision flash––
black silhouette framed
in the half moon window
thick waves of sunlight streaming
through antique glass––
hoping for magical disappearance,
the attic door remained latched
blue painters tape layered along every seam.

Now, it’s mid- August,
180 thousand dead,
and denial’s no longer possible.

The men arrive without masks
but wear steel tipped boots
caulking guns dangling from their belts,
metal ladders that screech when extended
tucked neatly under their muscular armpits.
They scurry around the perimeter of the roof
a startle of heavy bootsteps above
as lower blinds and I flee from room to room
to escape the roving ladders
angled against each window
caulking gun triggers cocked and aimed
at any breach bigger than a quarter.

When they’re done, the house is sealed
and a narrow silicone tube inserted
an exit only door extending
from what had been a hole in the siding
the likely work of a busy squirrel.

Though these residents never paid rent
neither did they receive the courtesy
of 30 days’ notice,
no yellow note pinned to the door
warning them of their imminent eviction.

Some say vampires need an invitation to enter
but what is a gaping hole in cedar shakes
if not an invitation to shelter and roost
in this dark warm eave of protection
a safe place to birth your pup and nurse it
til it is fully fledged and ready to fly
to a more hospitable place.

Summer Sanctuary

By the second week of July
the front garden is a fortress
the formal beds a moat,
quelling the siege of Trump flagged pick ups
blaring talk radio,
their occupants tossing fast food bags out windows
as if the world beyond their four wheels
is a giant wasteland.

With a splash of Wild Turkey in our heaviest tumblers
we lounge in our summer sanctuary
surrounded by towering sprays of grass
that spill over the tricky brick path
their sticky razor edged leaves leaving
a rash of welts on our forearms
when we try to tame them with rounds of twine.
Protected by lush ninebark and lavender coneflower buttons
bawdy annabelle hydrangea blooms drape so low
they sweep the ground.

From center stage and a mound of mulch
the quiet star rises erect and poised,
her central leader a spire, shooting skyward
a lookout for solitary birds,
branches, draped in cascading foliage,
purple chocolate glistening
a porte de bras of perfection.

The merlot weeper’s regal silhouette still until
the soft wind rattles her graceful limbs,
a shower of garnets stirring

Lunch at Bob’s, 1965

When the lunch bell rings
we rush from stuffy classrooms,
stampede through hallways
with faint smells of polish and disinfectant
tumble in a jumble down
the double wide staircase,
the smooth wood bannister daring
anyone willing to risk the ire
of Mr. Salinger standing guard.

Hungry for sun and lunch
most run to mothers
happy for this break from chores
gossiping in shirt sleeves
waiting for their charges
to ferry them home for lunch together
before returning them to school
for the afternoon session.

The walkers, who live close enough
and have permission,
chatter with the frenzy of the newly sprung,
as they make their way home
to apron clad mothers
ready to serve them lunch
when they breach the front door.

I find my sisters by the flagpole
our designated meeting spot
brown bags in hand
and we walk together up the hill
past the castle shaped Episcopal Church
with its seasonal display of fake sheep
and creepy cradle laden baby Jesus’
past the open door of Donatello’s
where wafting clouds of hairspray and cigarette smoke
make us gag just a little bit when we walk by,
past the circular stone staircase that leads down to the warren
where Tony, the shoe repair man sits
buried among heaps of leather
banging and stitching and stretching.

Finally, we finally arrive at Bob’s.

Balding and soft faced,
apron smeared with chocolate ice-cream smudges
wrapped around the beginnings of a paunch
he’s endlessly patient with neighborhood children
mesmerized by this hole in the wall suburban dime store
its glass candy counter cloudy with sticky finger prints
squeaky metal racks of comic books and Mad Magazines,
every nook and cranny of the store filled
with undiscovered treasure.

From behind the soda fountain counter he smiles.
Mother works at the art gallery in town today
and he’s been expecting us.
We plunk down three in a row
on the red leather stools that twirl
and are too high up for our feet to touch the ground.
What’ll it be girls, he asks.

We’ve been looking forward to this all week.

The Landscape of my Dreams

I used to dream of being chased
through the dim of a dark alley
bootsteps slapping pavement glinting
the heat of panting dog breath
taut restraint on leash
closing in on me.

I used to dream of driving in blackness
blind to the road beneath or ahead
foot leaden on the pedal
careening breathless spirals
before free falling tumble
down.

I used to dream of wandering lost
in a labyrinth of darkening woods
twilight turning
hopeless moonless sky
the scurry of squirrels
hoots and howls piercing.

Now I dream of crowded markets
mass of masked faces
disembodied bodies jockeying
gloved hands grasping
towards barren shelves.

Now I dream of an empty esplanade
overgrown gardens abandoned
by the troweled troupe of volunteers,
dusty dog run silent
river facing benches
shrouded with orange caution.

Now I dream of bat shaped drones
solar powered hovering
buzzing aloft
swooping circles
mechanical voice commanding
clusters to disperse.

The terror of my nocturnes
used to be the stuff of fiction
of horror movies and murder mysteries
of chase scenes and heart pounding suspense
awaiting a knife wielding joker faced killer
behind a closed door.

But now, in the altered landscape of my dreams
nightmares are born
from the substance of daily life
incubated in the dim light of cable news
and the Georgia font
of The New York Times.

Elise Chadwick taught English at Horace Greeley High School in Chappaqua, NY for 30 years. She lives in NYC and spends weekends caring for her 200-year-old home in upstate New York, coexisting with the deer, groundhog, fox, bats, rabbits and squirrels, who got there first. Her poems have been recently published in The Paterson Literary Review and Muddy River Poetry Review.