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Whitewashed
House of Paint

The house sits
 at the end of the street.
A man lives there. 
He painted the house pearl white.
 Luminous, lustrous, pearl white. 
Three coats so no cracks show. 
It glistens in the bright sun. 
It shimmers in the moonlight. 

The people pass by the house of white. 
How beautiful they exclaimed. 
How pure, how righteous, how perfect.

 The people praise the man 
for his house of white. 
"How virtuous and spiritual you must be."
" If the outside is this resplendent,
 this dazzling,
imagine what the inside is like."

The man smiles. 

He goes inside his house of white. 
There his dogs wait. 
They are rabid and hungry.
 Always hungry.
 They must be fed.
 He knows what they want. 

He opens the door to the basement. 
The smell rises to his nostrils. 
The stench of anger, lust, 
hate, apathy, pride.
His carcasses, his bones.
He inhales deeply. 

 The dogs lunge past him. 
The ravenous beasts devour the remains.
Rotting vestiges of his soul. 
After the feast, the dogs sleep, for now.

 The man gets a bucket 
of pearl white paint. 
He goes outside. 
He notices a crack by the door. 
He paints over it. 
He smiles.
Perfect again.

6.13.19

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