The Gray Two-Story Across From the Park

 

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (May, 1997)

 

A Home Becomes a House Again:

The last boxes of this and that have been laid to rest
in quiet scattered solitude on the hardwood floor,
awaiting only a lift from the mayflower man.

The hallway closet where our coats used to rest,
now stripped of the garb it stored by the door,
mourns the transfer of treasures to a moving van.

Deserted hooks and naked nails hug walls undressed;
relieved of their duties, bearing burdens no more,
they loiter and litter each bland plaster span.

The gas range fumes at the loss of its pilot blue heat,
its burners absent their fire, missing their light;
tempered door open,  oven breathing at last.

Powerless, the fridge sits stripped and silent in defeat;
fortress in white –  lifeline by day, beacon by night,
provider, safe harbor, its presents now passed.

As comforting sanctuary,  as kindred retreat,
that kitchen oasis offered exile from flight
to we who sought refuge when things moved too fast.

A building now stands where our home used to be,
abandoned forever by my family.
Devoid of domain and dignity,
a rest stop in time, soon to be
nothing more than a memory.

A House Becomes A Home Again:

U-Haul unloaded at the the first light of dawn.
Contents in place before morning is gone.
Kids running barefoot across the lawn.
Parents inside with curtains drawn.
They’ve moved in – and we’ve moved on.

Makes them hither, makes us yon.

Makes us … yawn.

 

50+ years later - no longer gray
( Aging nicely, some 50 years later,  but no longer gray,  no  longer a home,  nor even a house – now simply a soulless, sterile structure, i.e., office space.)

 

 

3 thoughts on “The Gray Two-Story Across From the Park

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