Eraser House

“We should keep furnishing the quiet places of our souls with all the furniture of faith.”

September spun itself wild—
I clung to its skirts.

October arrived clean,
steady as a spine.

Until the chill came crawling,
fear in its breath—
just in time for Halloween.

The house where I keep my faith
is smaller than a dollhouse,
smaller still—
a home carved into the pink eraser
atop a pencil, displayed
in some roadside museum
of oddities.

There’s a magnifying glass
nailed to the wall for visitors,
so they can peer inside
and see—
there is no inside.

The windows are only scratches,
a suggestion of rooms,
a trick of depth.
My soul, perhaps,
still waiting to be furnished.