the usual suspects:
a net of clotheslines ready to snap
the yawning mouth of the washing machine
the spinning heat of the dryer
wires dangling everywhere: alarm, doorbell,
cut phonelines, electric for outlets buried behind walls
the flaking floor leaning downhill to a too dark corner
a cedar closet filled with dead moths
half a bedframe
shelves full of dried paintcans, rags, turpentine
and, unique to this house
the safe, large as a person, door propped open
but who’s to keep a child
from shutting the door
and no one knows the combination
to the locked strongbox inside