Oh, Poor House

This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.

I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.

My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation

These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.

I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.

Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.

I do not miss you.

14 thoughts on “Oh, Poor House

  1. Strange how the past remembers us; this morning I too thought of an old house, and as the years have brought changes to me, changes now live in the house.

    The walls are repainted, its hardwood floors are now carpeted, and a two-ton centralized heating and air-conditioning system fills its stomach. Venting occupies every room, and the gas stove is now electric.

    Strange how memories sometimes fade, becoming foggy. If we care, we struggle to remember, never caring to shed gleeful days; they were/are our lives. Then sometimes it is simply better to leave old memories (forever) in that “Oh, (Poor) House.”

    I wonder: if we somehow were able not to miss it, would it always miss us.

    Maggie Mae, “Oh, Poor House” is filled with sweet feelings, memories not easily forgotten; and though you somehow are able leave it and them behind, they would ever embrace you.


    • I agree, and I like that wonder “if we were able not to miss it, would it always miss us?”

      I would like to know the answer to that.

      Thanks for the comment and the read, my friend!!


  2. Another fantastic entry! Love what you have done with this poem. I have a house somewhat like this in my past. I think many of us do, with similar details, but not exactly the same.



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