a poem by John Grey

Abandoned Farmhouse in the New Hampshire Woods

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

and scratches.

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