For Sale
A “For Sale” sign stands on the front lawn,
I barely glance as I drive by.
Someone’s packed up all the memories,
Stacked them on the porch, and turned a blind eye...
On the photograph albums, and worn out clothes,
And the makeshift bookcase of cinderblocks,
The birthday parties and sibling fights,
They’ve even cast out the Christmas box...
With its waxen choir of carolers,
And construction paper chains,
Quilted stockings, and angel hair,
Broken glass balls, and tinsel remains.
They’ve swept dusty corners and dreams
Out the door with the Salvation Army's share,
Sorted through cards and letters,
And discarded melted Tupperware.
The black lacquer mailbox hangs empty,
Its lid yawning open on the beaded lap wall.
And the window offers only a smudged view inside
Where their voices still echo down the hall.
The years gone by, the laughter and tears
Are not listed on the realtor’s marquee.
Nevertheless they linger,
Safe from prospective buyers and the spare key.
* de - august 2005
