I don’t think anyone lives there now

The balcony blinds are closed, quieting

All inquiry, curious questions

Like a finger raised to one’s lips

The S is fainter than the rest

A hesitation mark of scarlet, not crimson

The L-U-T bold-blazened above the door

Intimidating in presence and purpose

I see the word every morning from my kitchen window

As I Sip Pu’er tea from my contemplative cup

It dares me to open the screen & let it in

Though I am certain it could enter on its own

Morning eyes focused, fixated on the painted letters

While the cicadas weave its message into their drone:

Your actions are not your own and

Fairly or not – you will be judged by them

The person who lived here has borne their shame

As you eventually must, as well. Someday soon

I may be above your door

I turn to whitewash it from my mind

And pour another cup