We lived in a house that had no name,
so we called it Charnel House.
We became the envy of Cold Soil Road.

Those busybodies across the street, the Bones,
peeked at our place through parted blinds.
Sid and Nonni Necropolis rerouted their evening

ambles to see our spread at sunset.
Soon, the neighbours named their digs as well:
Abattoir Acres. Knacker’s Knoll. Coup-de-grace.

But we were the first. We could feel the resentment.
When the Stillborn kids from down the block
egged our Charnel House, we really lost our cool,

tore down our name, went back to our old ways.
Mr. Ossuary, we see you there hanging
your shingle across the road: Hell’s Little Acre.

You can have this first swirl of October.
Me and the Missus can hole up here till Kingdom Come,
nothing here but curtains

between the two of us and you.