Thomas Harrison Poet Personification

Frame

They’ve found a body in my back yard. I
imagine what a dead house would look 
like. A stillborn Brownstone with its Jurassic 
sandstone hiccupping fossils and family 
feuds. Terrace houses would ripple rumour
and rife gossip from one mirrored house to the
next, those prison bars on pavements. A Bungalow 
would be simpler: no basement layers or levels
of intrigue, no Who before the Dunnit. Now I 
imagine what type of house would best cover a 
crime…. no room in High Rise or Loft - the body 
would just float, just hang there. A quickly 
erected Tent could hide disturbed earth; or a 
chugging Barge to clog up clay and clods of mud 
over not yet decayed fingers and thumbs. A 
Farmhouse has a credible need of a pyre like 
an Igloo’s plausible need for ice. A Tudor revival 
wouldn’t want anything of the sort. Then I imagine 
how the rooms would react: bathroom tiles cracking 
into brave smiles and kitchens hiding knives in fear of 
another attack; staircases sagging like the confused 
brow of a mourning man, a living room offended by 
the very antonym of itself. I imagine what a 
guilty house would look like… crocodile tears from 
a Pacific Lodge and panicked lies of a Flounder, the 
subtle reveals of a Dingbat. I doubt a Shotgun 
would even try though, nor the Creole Cottage; just 
accept its racial profiling. They’ve found a body in 
my back yard. So, am I a church now I have a graveyard?

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