by Ron Vincent

Created on: January 28, 2009   Last Updated: January 29, 2009

Foreclosed

Limp brown grass

in moldy knots

frames an empty house.

A broken gate hangs

by a rusted tendon

and sings a high pitched dirge

when the north wind blows

through leafless trees

that spring will not kiss

with green.

The tree roots died

months ago

unwatered

in shimmering summer heat.

The garage door needs paint,

its bare metal reflects

the winter sun

and leaf litter

fills the gutters to the brim

just below the roof line.

In the driveway

an oil stain marks the spot

where a wife stood

as she looked one last time

at the house where she had birthed

her only daughter,

now a sombre five year old

who stared at a back seat

jammed with clothes.

The husband gave up first,

leaving one Friday

with a promise to call

when the new job began

in the new city.

The call never came,

the job never began.

So it fell

to the unwife

to have the yard sale,

to sign the papers,

to empty the home

that had become a tomb.

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