STANDISH ROAD

Almost falling down, the home that was my
Great-grandparents. A big wing on each end of
A center section that once housed a store
And post office. Grandpa would give us a
Nickel and send us up the street to get
Some candy. My Great-grandmother, old
And ailing but glad to see us. My Grandma’s
Sister sorting mail talking and laughing.
A phone would ring, but not their ring,
Someone else on the party line. They knew
Them all and sometimes would pick up the
Phone and listen quietly, then interrupt.
And laugh and gossip. On a warm day
All the doors and windows would be open.
Curtains flapping in the constant breeze.
Comings and goings.
Living and dying.
They did die of course, over the years.
Then so did the town. And it wasn’t so long that
No one in the family wanted the old, run down
House. Year after year it sat decaying and
Dying. It’s still there. Given up for taxes with
Signs tacked up and yellow rope around because
Of the danger. The center collapses more with every
Hard winter storm, and there are many there on
The back side of the mountain.
The sides lean in and soon it will all collapse
Upon itself. I remember it freshly painted and
Clean, clean, clean.
My Great-grandparent’s abandoned house.