Sunday, August 05, 2007

Someone Else’s House

I step out of my car and close the door,
lean back against the cool green metal
and look across the tracks at the old house.
Someone lived there once, I think.
Someone who might see the same thing
I am seeing and think,
“Once we ran down its narrow halls,
polished its banisters to high gloss
with the seats of our pants.
The tree from which we once swung
is gone; all the trees are gone.
There is no living thing here now.”
It is a dead house, empty
like an old fleshless skull.
I lean against the car, smoking.
When only the filter is left
I flick the butt onto the tracks
and light another.

--March 2, 1999

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