Andover Drive

i remember that house

on Andover Drive,

weather beaten and

shadowed

beneath a cobweb of hedges

and vines,

the old man,

the sick woman

living there, tethered to

her oxygen

tank.

him in his compression socks,

legs up on

the frayed

recliner

from another age.

musty with time.

each room layered

in artifacts from when the children

were young.

it was always tea and crackers.

and a vague offer

of gin, pointing to where

you might find

the bottle.

he'd waddle to the stove

to make a bowl

of popcorn

to round out

the cheese and cut salami.

it was a strange

little world, winding

down.

winding down.

all the secrets 

boxed in the cellar

collecting mold.

a world you had no place

being in,

but would soon 

fortunately disappear from.