Lonely House---- Big Frank Dickinson
It's funny how when she is in the house
That it somehow seems to be her friend
The way those close to you can comfort
Just by their nearness and availability.
However, outside now it's clear: she is wrong.
This house somehow survived some major
Demolition, urban renewal, or decay;
It is an island of solidity in the midst of nothing.
It was a rowhouse, but has lost it's row;
Built of stone with pillars attending the door,
Three stories, with awnings covering the
Windows that shyly shelter her well-kept
Interior, surely as neat and well-cared for
As the the exterior demonstrates, yet
There is nobody to see, nobody at all
Except the owner who sits alone outside
Against the hugely blank wall of her home,
A tiny figure, dwarfed by the house.
She sits outside and flits in her mind
Back to when she was in a real row
Each home seeminly as solid as the wall behind her;
No matter; they gave up; they moved on, either
Back to where they had been, or on to new neighborhoods;
But not her, no, she held to her principles; stood her ground.
She is sitting proof of the force of determination.
Now, on her little chair, in the emply lot, against the wall
She turns her thoughts to her upstairs bedroom;
"It might just be time to get that new comforter".
No comments:
Post a Comment