All Towns Have One

All towns have one,
a deserted, haunted house,
the primary focus
of every eight-year-old boy
around campfires and
after “lights out” during
weekend sleepovers.

Seen peering from
its cracked, cobwebbed-
encrusted windows,
grizzled and bald-headed,
the tormented ghost
of a rumored suicide waits
with knife in hand.

Music has been heard
coming from its basement,
prowling like the wind
through decades of clutter;
a lamenting guitar
played without the benefit
of strings or fingers.

Despite an assertion
of having ventured within
last Halloween night,
no one believes that older
boy’s account of entry,
since obviously, he is still
alive to tell the tale.

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