THE HOUSE THAT ONCE WAS HOME
by John T. Baker
Unlike its well-groomed neighbors on the block
the drab deserted cottage thirsts for paint;
forlorn the sagging shutters twist and groan
as splintered shingles tumble numbly down
with every spiteful gust that whistles through
the paneless window frames.

Despondently the shabby grounds display
discarded trash and stunted weeds along
the crumbling walks and barren beds where once
bright blossoms bloomed and gleeful children romped
beneath the shielding arms of stately trees
that withered yet remain.

Inside is mainly must where formerly
fresh generations plied their destinies
amid the manifold vicissitudes
that came their way as fortune passed them by
until the tides of time washed over them
and drowned their fruitless dreams.

The structure stands, a monument to years
when values since extinct seemed paramount
and simple pleasures now unknown engaged
the reveries and airy hopes of those
who like this house in atrophy recall
an age that is no more.