On the trampled path
curving between lawns
to the house I once loved,
I hear wind ceaselessly slam
a forgotten screen door.
There’s a tiny thumbprint
in a dried mustard stain
on the scratched kitchen counter,
an old milk puddle
clouding the floor tile,
and I try to find
something in them.
Cobweb and half charred log
lay suspended in fireplace ash;
the antique rocker
I finished one summer
leans on a broken strut.
Before the monster came,
on these walls we hung
paintings and prints,
each one a discovery
we saluted with goblets.
Once a month at least,
we rearranged furniture,
changed wallpaper on a whim,
mixing and matching patterns
for the most majestic scene.
Our Christmas trees were works of art,
ornaments hand made and lively;
their lights flashed fresh hope and cheer
to circles of gifts, meticulously wrapped.
Here, on the bottom of a staircase
where his stutter began,
the boy sat waiting,
shoes perfectly tied
for the promised excursion
that was always cancelled.
Here, I watched the girl
suffocate her smile,
turn her face to the wall
suffering her shadow,
pray to be someone else
in another place.
The dog became allergic
and there were nightmare cries
in brightly painted rooms.
Gone now the schizophrenic wife,
gone son, daughter and dog.
I leave through the kitchen,
switch off the lights,
lock the door behind me.
The real estate lady has a key.