didn’t know mushrooms could grow on glass
But they are
 
They cover my patio door,
obstructing my view of the courtyard where the children were playing just yesterday
But now the courtyard is covered with them, too,
along with the swing set
and the slide
and the jungle gym

They came last week to spray for insects,
the men in brown suits
I thought there was something odd about them,
the way they sprayed the chemical not only on the grass,
but on the windows,
and the rooftops,
and the telephone poles

Now there are mushrooms everywhere,
their gnarled little roots
need no soil or water or sunshine 
They continue to spread and grow,         
clinging to the wind chimes
and the eaves through
and the neighbor’s dog

Did I tell you the phone lines are down?

I’ve seen people outside with mushroom beards,
and mushroom skirts
and jewelry made of caps and stems
They shuffle and stumble and roam past my window
in slow, clumsy, half-dead steps
Mushrooms cover their faces,
and blind their eyes,
and fill their mouths like barnacles

This morning I opened the door
—just an inch—
and screamed for help

But that was a mistake
That’s how they got in