A large shadow that may or may not be a demon
looms in a room designed to look like my living
room. But it’s a little too clean here,
the tv’s not on & the wine glass
on the coffee table still brims
with a mid Cab. A poinsettia that died
a few Christmases back thrives on an end
table with my KitKat clock whose eyes look up
to a slightly pulsating popcorn-free ceiling.
I am wearing a messy bun, lilac Lululemon scuba, yoga
pants, blue shearling Birkenstocks & I am unbothered
by the floor that is heavily breathing,
by the window panes that have grown some teeth,
by the fact that Ian Lawman’s no longer here to fix
this shit. Trust him way more than Zak Bagans,
assume now the mass has swallowed him whole
because I can still hear his voice somewhere
prattling in the void & I am aware
there is no upstairs or basement
or any other room left in this house
but this one with no promise
of another episode tomorrow
& I can’t seem to get any conversation
going & I can’t find a spirit box,
or my remote & I can’t believe
how unimpressed I am & I wonder
what I would have conjured up
if I had left on RHONY, or Below Deck
as the entity trembles in a dark corner,
wishing they were canceled—
