Wireless Doorbell
       

What makes it chime when no one's waiting there?
The porch is emptiness, the cul-de-sac
a concrete narrative that circles back
upon itself, each house a questionnaire
left blank. Our street has nothing to declare.
Somewhere a fan whirs on, a cadillac
sits idling, a window lets a crack
of light across the lawn. The peephole's stare
is wide, revealing nothing there. What makes
the doorbell chime? A switch? A wire crossed?
A ghost? We make a story from the sound
which has no maker. Perhaps it's our mistakes
that visit us—the envelopes we lost,
the keys, the little griefs we buried in the ground.

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Copyright © 2017 Jehanne Dubrow All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission