It's just the bones of a house,
its skin long peeled,
the frame of four unequal rooms,
and doors that usher in nothing and nowhere
out of and into the sun and rain.
The towering oak may boast
a roof of new shiny leaves
but the dwelling hears nothing
from that quarter.
Its scattered tiles are
overgrown puzzles for squirrels.
A rotted roof beam spears the mud floor
of what was once a cellar.
The everyday has totally abandoned
this hapless structure.
No one cooks, no one sleeps,
no one even stands out
on the collapsed veranda
No first name is called out
from the invisible window
on the second floor.
No last name will ever answer.
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. He has recently been published in That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.