The Unknowing November Brings.

On Monday, the doorbell rings and the sky is dripping white-grey,
on top of the door mat lay a severed head seeping into the concrete.
My mother wasn't home, the clock hit quarter to five,
a bell chimes in the distance, and a pot roast is squealing from the inside.
It feels like the paintings are upside down, or the dog suddenly turned 
into a rug under the coffee table.
The head billows from the outside, a step down, and starts crying
"Now"
The fireplace, the plastic shine dinner table, with matching cotton plush
bottoms for seats, the banister white and prim;
everything is on fire now.
And I cant seem to scream.
My parents are distant, and I made them this way.
This is what they mean when they say, "Listen to the night sirens,"
standing here now no one will be able to detect this hurt years from now.
It is November, and I am slowly dragging away.