Turning onto a side road
Demoted by the interstate
Into a memory,
A lonely house holds its breath.
Dressed in rusted metal lace
And silvered siding,
Its parched paint wrinkles
Soften in the late afternoon sun.
Drunken doors whisper invitations.
As porches sagging from the weight
Of remembered footsteps,
Discourage casual visitors.
Ambitious vines strangle columns and posts
While roses cavort shamelessly.
The laboring sound of wasps and wood bees
Muffles its pleas for rescue.
March 30th, 2012 at 8:28 pm
I heard the house too. Glad you could put it into words.