Fata Morgana

by Jim Zola

Believing to be cursed,
she commands a crew
of twenty-two carpenters
and craftsmen to work on her house
every hour of every day and night.
And so her house grows,
stories upon stories,
rooms upon rooms,
for thirty-six years,
with no purpose and no end.
Stairways lead nowhere;
doors open to walls or air;
chimneys stop in attics,
inches from breaking
through the roof. When she dies,
some of the workmen lay down
their tools and go home,
leaving nails half hammered,
boards half sawn. Others
ornament the lawn,
flicking cigarettes or leaning back
with eyes shut. One sings a song
in a voice that sounds like
the dance of a lame horse.
Someone shouts from inside the house.
The workers don’t move.
Then I am in the house,
going from room to room
switching lights off and on.
I look out the window and see
a man staring back in at me.
He raises a hand to wave.
And though I’m certain
he can’t see me, I raise
my hand to answer.