Bones In The Tiles

“There are bones in the tiles.”
I heard the mason say.
“Before a man should work this home
we must know why they lay.”

“Say now sir, what have you seen;
This is your room, your floor?”
“My children and I have lived in peace here
I know little more.”

“What of your wife? the mason said.
“Why has she up and gone?”
“She loved us not, but loved the bottle
seven years abroad.”

“So none have seen her all this time?
No family, no friends?”
“I know not of her affairs,
I’ll tell you not again.”

“There are bones in the tiles.
the mason said aloud.
“The authorities must know of this,
recover these somehow.”

“Tis not my business just as well
but I can’t work today
until authorities reveal
the reason for this grave.”

“Good day to you.” our father said.
The mason walked outside.
I watched him go as little brother
clung to me and cried.

There are bones in the tiles
so tonight we cannot stay.
“Come get your things”, our father said.
“Its time to run away.”

Lee Eric is a Southern California native who spends as much time as possible cherishing wild land and open country as well as forgotten buildings and dilapidated structures. He has been writing poetry most of his life and would like to share some of it with others who take interest in such expressions. He currently resides in Hemet, a small town in Riverside County, California with his high school sweetheart and three hyperactive dogs. He is known to host the occasional spider.

Find more by Lee Eric in the Author Index.

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.