the house is empty

the house is empty.
the owners
leave, taking everything with them
but a few beers
left in the fridge.
a broom in the corner.
a glass on the counter.

my shoes echo across the floor.
there are dust balls
underfoot,
dog hair.
scribbles on the wall
where kids were measured.
there's a lock box
on the door. a sign in the
yard.

it's bitter sweet for them,
leaving this long
time home, a place where they've
lived,
shared love, and meals,
holidays, and watched the kids
grow.

I can almost hear and feel
the laughter that went
on here. hear the arguments
too, the tears,
and the apologies as each,
out of love, withdrew.

I can see the Christmas
tree in the corner.
the stockings on the mantle.
I smell the summer grill out
in the yard sizzling.


I hear the mower.
I see them raking leaves,
side by side,
the scraping of a snow shovel
against the walk.

a wind catches the rusted swing
in the back yard,
and as I stand there with
a cold beer in hand.

I watch it drift slowly,

back and forth,
back and forth.
back and forth.