Old Houses

 
We old houses store up long memories.
I know the neighbors look at me askance,
call me a heap of ramshackle debris,
an insult to the neighborhood’s good name.

They look upon my once sleek grey timbers,
shivered and weathered, scarcely holding on,
defying gravity as I shudder
and creak when the wind blows. My aroma

has taken a bad turn from the decay
and rot and wafts out into the street.
Dusty maple floorboards no longer grate
Christmas morning under steps of small feet

sneaking down for a peek at the tree.
Behind the baseboards, a cricket concert
supplants a chorus of the children’s glee.
Dull cobwebbed windows don’t let me observe

the foreclosure postings on the garage.
Past due bills for my long-fled family
spew out of the mailbox onto the grass.
My rooms now serve best for transient stays.
Drained by years of neglect, my dear reader
I’ve lost the strength to even stand in place.
I collapse onto the ground like a deer
shot down by hunters. Soon I will be raised

and burned. My ashes will fall and improve
our community garden which will nourish
the lost and forgotten people, for whom
we old houses always keep open doors.