If you won’t come in through
the back door, don’t bother knocking
on the front. The front faces
the street. It’s mowed perfectly. There’s

a welcome mat that smiles in the image
of a child. The number 35 is off
to the side, branding this place.

A clay rabbit sits on the grass.
The neighbor’s son pats it occasionally.
The mail carrier drops off the bills
and the ads in the long metallic box, with a lid
on the top.

There’s a sliding door
out back that’s off its track. To get to it
you must climb the broken stairs, up to the deck,
splintered and peeling.
Enter there