Through the window, the remains

of a proper home: a child's crib,

a grandfather clock & a TV cabinet.

 

Beside the door, a coffee mug

from a girl's birthday party

has turned to its side, pointing

at the road overcome by weeds and time.

 

It is one of the many houses

built from the wood that grew

on this same ground

 

back when the sawmills still ran

and wooden Jesus in the chapel

made sure the trees

would keep on coming.

 

On a porch step

were the dust marks

of a man’s back pockets,

 

as if after a few weeks,

the owner came back

to gather a few more things

and sat down

 

to let everything else go.