Spiders Thrive in the Darndest Places. . .

 We pushed open oak doors,
  watched faded paint chip and scatter
  over dust-and-dirt crusted floors.

  The steps had not been touched
  by curious feet, or a whisk broom
  in days, months, a glut of seasons.

  We both thought of Anne Frank
  at the same time; the same squint
  to search for a strand of morning sun.

  Maybe we all should have hid
  when our own Nazis came,
  the summer the first few got sick,

  and scribbled out journals in pencil;
  telling scholars of the future
  that we tried to stitch a quilt of hope

  out of pamphlets left in waiting rooms.
  We pulled it up and over our heads
  'till the dream of this monster was done.

  I see your hands go for the railing,
  as soon as your feet touch the first stair.
  Sometimes, I have to think about it.

  Stale, saved air drifts to the open door;
  dust from the rafters peppers our hair
  as we start up to the landing.

copyright 2005 by Brian Bengtson 
  - From the book FIRST CHILL: A COLLECTION OF POETRY, published 2005 by PublishAmerica