Visitors
Visitors
Frantic bass shakes the farmhouse windows.
The red pop-top screeches into the driveway,
its driver pounding on the horn.
Two men in the back, shoulders moving to the beat.
The three vaulting in sync
over the doors
onto the pavement
sauntering up to the house, through the garage,
pulling open the studio door,
pressing into the dining room.
a breeze drifting through the open window
three figures freeze in place
fingers skimming beneath the jaw
chins quiver
ears resisting the tug of fingers
blinking eyes
fix into stillness
masks dropped onto the light cherry-wood table
under the flesh, a flickering translucence
bodies already thinning at the shoulders
the three turn toward the open door
raised fists closed in one last salute
the red pop-top backs out of the driveway
masks left discarded
on the dining room table
eyes unmoving
lips flutter
Copyright © Kate Sparks | Year Posted 2026
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