The Skull Is a House

You check the crawl space under the porch,
Not keen on black widows, skunks, or snakes
But drawn by the urge to check on things.

Some day a marvel will have sprouted
From spores that are this dirt’s treasure hoard,
Why you never dig anything up—

Coins and artifacts won’t drag themselves
Into the light, but you have to wait
On life to create its own entrance.

Until then, you can’t resist checking,
The way your mother would wander out
To check the mailbox multiple times,

The way people keep refreshing screens,
Although you’re not waiting on the news,
You’re waiting on a marvel to rise

From under the ordinary world,
To contradict everything before,
And then what? Who knows. See if it grows.