the empty house

the house, once pickle green,
has faded.
boards are screwed tight
onto frames
where faces once
looked out.
the doors are nailed shut.
signs posted.
this property condemned.
the chain link
fence wraps
bent around the scrub brush,
the overgrown
thickets,
ivy scrolls along
the chimney,
tightening its grip
on crumbling brick.
the living have left,
the dead too.
maybe there was love in
this house
at one time.
maybe there were children
in the windows.
maybe someone came home
from work,
ate dinner, watched tv,
then kissed his wife
goodnight.
maybe.