Suburban sewer pipes hidden away

Suburban sewer pipes hidden away

Every house should have
a pit of bones beneath the floor,
a frame of cobwebs around a door,
a time of haunting
in faded lore.

Every person should have
a shameful memory to keep within,
a crooked leg, with mottled shin,
a secret waiting
in alley dim.


To lend a sound humility,
to spark artistic empathy,
to give lawful due to entropy,
to keep it all above the board.

But most of all,
because perfection
is an open sore.