You can’t miss it.
It’s the last house on the block,
a bit run down but lots of curb appeal—
a widow’s walk on the mansard roof,
a weather vane that always points south,
tall beveled windows with the shutters closed 
day and night. 

The owner’s been there forever. 
A gentleman who mostly keeps to himself,
he takes long walks of an evening
with his collar turned up, his fedora pulled low. 
Sometimes he’ll nod when you pass him on the sidewalk. 
Sometimes from across the street 
he’ll wave. 

You take it as an invitation. 
And one day soon or years from now
you’ll find yourself standing at his door,
admiring the old brass doorknob rubbed to a shine. 
You’ll put your good eye to the keyhole,
see nothing but darkness,