The People Four Doors Down Are Demi Moore

They are Demi Moore-ish,
Scrupulous about their appearance

And seldom seen: Today, after 12 Years, at the foot of their crewcut lawn

An oily pizza box holding a bowl
Filled with small, hard Apples.

Quite Red but clearly inedible
And lettered on the box: FREE

The apples sit all day, untouched
Poison suspected, razor blades

Yellow memories of bitter vomit

Every week someone hops my fence
And eats out of my garbage

Barren orange peels, seeds from jam
Jars, green-bellied bread

Demi Moore’s mother was an
Alcoholic loser who lived in the

Efficient car her daughter gave her,
Dying elsewhere, finally

Doubling over while three thousand
Miles away her daughter built

A large house, a real house,
For her impressive doll collection

The rest of this story isn’t true and Likely far too generous but

One sunny day, Demi noticed the Dolls’ shoes seemed shabby in the

Golden light that pours through the
Windows, so she replaced them all,

Having hired an ingenious cobbler.

She put the old ones in a bowl and
Had one of her servants scatter them

In Potter’s Field, and call FREE
To all the killers, victims and nobodies,

Free! she thought, frowning
Then said it into a mirror to see how

Her lips looked, biting, parting,
Then snapping shut.

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