rental

the empty house with
bare floors, and bulbs
swinging on wired
string, the closets
heavy with dust,
the smell of old
clothes and shoes.
the fingerprints
of a child on the
back window where
he must have sat,
staring out across
the highway, to where
the neon signs lit
up canary yellow and
red when the sun
went down. and the
broken latches,
and holes in the
walls, where fists
must have punched,
all signs pointing
to something not good,
not happy. and
the thin black
hangers in the
closet swinging
with the slightest
touch of air,
the squeak of
radiators, the one
single, lone chair
in the kitchen with
intials carved deep
into the seat. but
not a box, or book,
or hint of any
name, or person
that may have lived
here. nothing is
left. and i'll paint
it all white, fresh
and clean for the
next tenant soon
to arrive.