The Gray Two-Story Across From the Park

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, silent in defeat;
fortress in white –  lifeline by day, beacon by night,
provider, safe harbor, its presence now passed.

As comforting sanctuary, as reassuring retreat,
the safe kitchen oasis offered exile from flight,
a nest that felt right, when life moved too fast.

Now just a building, idled realty,
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 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; we’ve moved on.
Makes them hither, makes us yon.



(Aging nicely, some 60 years later,  though no longer gray,  no longer a home,  nor even a house – now simply a soulless, sterile structure, i.e., law offices.)

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

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