The House on Main Street

I am the dust gathered on the spider’s back,

Clogging up trachea and then vanishing

With the soft caress of a rueful wind

Howling through the crevices of the old,

Nearly forgotten skeleton of wood and plaster.

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I am the dust lifted from the black and white spots

Of the hard, glossy rear of the spider as it bobs

On its web, shaking the silk to say goodbye.

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The thinning wood of this shelter holds itself together

With century-old snuff and the mold that has slowly

Accumulated year by year,

Painted its splinters with the same delicate colors

Of the spider rubbing its fangs.

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The bones of this old place expand

With every breath of lingering incense it draws into its lungs.

The bones shrink with each heavy exhale as the homes’ own special brand

Of illness puffs into the river of miasmas swirling above.

It creaks dolefully as it watches the cloud of breath

Wash out to the sea of human faces.

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It shudders in the summer storm.

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Rain pitter-patters against its windows as the dark sky

Hollers and weeps its laments across asphalt shingles

And down sunshine siding glowing yellow even now.

The house, it sighs.

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Galaxy eyes peer from the chimney and fingers long and lean

Grip the edges of the biting brick until they prick.

Blood joins the collection of liquid gathering in the attic,

Drip-dripping orange onto bookshelves and piano tops.

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The creature above settles into the flue as lightning cracks

Across the expanse of black shining up at the sky.

And the home, it shivers in the cold, acutely aware

Of the nesting ball of warmth heating its long throat

That churns out a mess of smoke and ash through the winters.

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Forgotten.

Misplaced.

The shadow of a breath in a building that stretches old arms tall

And reaches for the static in the sky with the crumbling hope

Of finding some sort of peace, some misaligned rest

That will ease the ache in its listing frame.

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The summer storm passes. So too does the snow and the

Spattering of ice that fells great trees and shoots sparks

Out of black wires whipping like snakes across the asphalt.

The wooden bones, they shudder with unexpected relief.

It has not died and it decides, under the grey clouds of the retreating storm,

That it would like to stay another day.

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To see the woman pushing her infant down the path that

Winds around its perimeter, cutting around the wide trunks of trees.

And it would like to see those too, grow taller than its own bones and kiss

The very bottom of the white clouds floating above.

What a terrible shame it would be to leave those cotton-ball puffs unseen.

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With a guttural groan, the house settles on its haunches.

The creature shoved in the chimney hisses its approval

While within the warm walls a family gathers close,

Pats the aged walls with the kind familiarity of holding the

Arthritic hand of a grandparent.

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And the house, it sighs.

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There it is, the latest poem. I live in an area with plenty of old homes, mine included, and there's something captivating about them. All have their own emotions, their own stories, their own lives and I find it so wonderfully overwhelming.

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