The Ghost Town

It need not be a desiccated wreck

of boards, completely uninhabited,

adobe bricks regressed to mud, hay. Heck,

it might be verdant and jackrabbited.

The wind might not lament; the gift shop door

could jingle bells, the jasmine candles wafting.

Beyond some seniors at the convenience store,

you might observe a fisherman shoplifting.

But say it's vacant and bunch grass gray. Then torch

an image, scent, or song from your present life

to reconstruct the step, the stairs, the porch,

the house, town, two men fighting with a knife.

Much like the architecture of a sonnet:

a step, and suddenly you die upon it.