Mansion for a shrew

For Merril,
You remind me of a salty milk tin.
Left on a shelf of an abandoned liquor house.
Scattered,
Ran out of and left to age.
Unclaimed: The residence;
Salty and archaic: The tin.

A crooked weather vein cocks tweaked in the leaning
direction of measly roof.
Tornado towns and growing briar.

Merril,
Moo milk.
Motherfucking moo milk.
Another residence left to poor shape.
Fair enough of a mansion to the passing shrew or opossum.
Yet a biped with pocketbook to walk up these stairs
and CRACK you're a busted hip and better off suburban.

Bourbon. Snuck in,
Weeks before it collapsed.
Drunk two nights passing through a thick of nowhere.
Milk tin left on a shelf, later wearing rooftop as a hat.
Nowhere is someplace for somebody, like a shrew
or runaway.
Moomilk.
Godamn moo milk.