Bunkhouse

The bunkhouse held a secret it carried for years.
Just walking near I’d feel an arm reaching out,

wanting something. I’d hold my breath
to keep it still, then walk fast to the creek

to hide, again, the freckled arm of the hired man.
When others walked nearby,

I’d wonder how they missed it. 
We moved and it collapsed.

I didn’t need a creek to hide things.
I walked like others,

as if no arm ever reached for me.
It worked for a long time

until the day I heard they burned down
what was left of the bunkhouse.

Everywhere I walked, I startled to see arms
coming out of walls.