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What You Don'T See: I Do

What you don’t see: I do
A derelict house lumbered down the street
— it had enough of sitting still.
The prickly weeds and spiderwebs spawned ghosts and shards of glass.

People stared and pointed out; aghast they turned away
— don’t let that thing come near to me.
Its dirty rot and history — we don’t have time to hear.

A writer sat on a lonely stoop leaned back against the grade
— she watched the house as it stumbled on.
The stories one, two, three.

The house it stopped where the writer sat and asked in misery
— can I rest my tender bones with you here on this here stoop?
The house looked downcast clapboard bare.

The writer shifted over some and patted the spare seat
— come sit and rest with me a while and tell me what you’ve seen.
The smile was meant to be a gift to the lonely house.

The house slunk down and grateful pleased and breathed a sigh of dust
— thank God to heaven here on earth that you are here to hear.
It’s hard you know for a house to walk — alone — no people left.

The writer draped her arm about the house and said: there there
— now tell me mate where have you been and is there much to say?
Of children laughing, mothers loving and fathers ploughing fields.

The house let forth a bellow then and opened every door
— of laughter, love and misery it cried a tale of woe.
Its paint and windows glowed right then and showed what used to be.

The writer licked her pencil stub and noted down the notes
— the pages of her paper pile she smoothed as she penned down.
With that she set to write for years of lives gone into dust.

The house it tumbled to the ground and grew weeds where it once stood
— the lives go on in words you see.
The people are no more.

The writer packed her note book up
— she penned the lives of those — what’s missing is the laughter loud.
The mother, child and Pa.

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