Low Rent District
Bruce McRae    

​A little yellow house on the moon.
No one knows how it got there
or when or why
anyone would want to live in such a place.
And have you seen the price of lumber lately?
 
It appears to be unoccupied,
but through my telescope I can see
the occasional light going off and on,
and what I think might be
a black dog looking out a window.
 
A house on the moon, and yet so few care,
our world gone to hell in a handbasket,
midnight's starry opera soundly ignored
by the pill-sodden and fear-muddled masses.
 
It must be, I imagine, costly to heat,
and as quiet as a funeral,
the dark's breath barely brushing a latch.
A sense of dread haunting the cellar.
The unknown knocking.