House

I woke up wondering
What I was doing back here/there, again?
I thought I left there long ago.
I thought I was taken from this place, that place.
I thought, I thought, I thought.
I thought it was real once.
It was real once.
Now it’s ‘real’, it’s a dream, which means it isn’t real.
Once, it was surrounded by trees and grass and buzzing
And humming and roaring and scent and sun.
I lived there, I ate there, I breathed there, I played there.
Now it is gone and then gone again.
It is still gone like a persistent memory.
Now gone, it just sits there brooding,
Appearing again, slowly solidifying, again.
Only it doesn’t brood, it just stands there,
Like my mother with her arms crossed,
Looking implacable and striking and ready to strike.
It isn’t there because it isn’t there.
We removed ourselves,
I was removed with we.
It was removed by progress … and dealers.
But it’s still there, like missed evidence.
An artifact of journeys that might be saying,
You may as well have stayed.
It was a strange place.
It followed the sun like a sunflower,
Groaning and creaking and we would watch doors
Swing open or shut dependent on shafts of sunlight.
But now that I’m back/not back again,
The sun has vanished, and it just sits there expectantly.
All the suburban blue paint is gone.
All the white paint around the windows is missing.
But the wood looks healthy, like it’s still breathing,
Or maybe it has put down roots,
Drawing food, sustenance, nutrition, something,
From where it doesn’t stand.
But it looks like it needs a tan, a little sun.
Wherever it is, there isn’t any sun.
It looks like it needs to get out and play,
There … there isn’t any sun there anymore,
Where ever it is it must always be overcast,
But it doesn’t say anything about the sun,
Or leaning, or groaning, or shrieking
Like it used to, it just says matter-of-fact lies,
Like your great-grandmother is living here now,
Or, there is a trunk upstairs you forgot to take,
Or, the cat is still around here somewhere,
Or, so there you are, what did you do with your little car,
Or, don’t worry, the dealers will be leaving soon,
Or, look out back, your friend Miguel is out there.
And in last night’s neverthere I found my way back
And a window that was never there,
A window that opened in the middle
And had a little turning latch,
That would never keep out a dealer,
With a perfect window frame like a perfect picture frame,
Perfectly carved, perfectly molded, perfectly gleaming,
And the right side was open,
Letting in no breeze, looking out toward
A sunrise and one of those dealer tilt-up knockdowns
That was too big and too small
And some men were working and I tried to close
The window quietly but a man heard it
And I know he came over to ask me,
Ask me what I was doing inside that place,
And he looked at me from outside the outside
And I looked at him from inside the inside
And I stared and he stared because
It really was Miguel, a grown man, and he said,
Wow, I haven’t seen you for a while,
You aren’t supposed to be in there.
But always a loyal friend, he said
Get out of there before something happens.
I wanted to stay and talk, but he looked over his shoulder
And said, better leave, so I disappeared into the dark.
There were places inside that still had light,
But I don’t know why.
It kept telling me lies about who lived there.
There weren’t any rugs or furniture or books.
There weren’t any sounds from the wood.
There weren't any people.
The tile is gone, the kitchen is gone, the smells are gone.
The deafening silence is hanging like a suicide
In the middle of everything, and no one wants
To touch it, or move it, be the first to mention it.
Thoughts and words just swirl around saying
Oh, that used to be there and that might make a nice,
How cozy if you changed.
I’m listening to those echoes now.
It hasn’t moved from where it stands/stood,
Even though it was the first to go,
Well, maybe the second,
The double pie-wagons were first.
But that was hidden too,
Old Mrs. Jones gave me that ceramic squirrel
And I think she gave my sister an angel
And maybe she threw a final rock over the fence
At my grandmother. But she’s gone too.
The dealers got them all, one after the other.
It’s sister died under a bulldozer,
Its mother went through a facelift
And a tuck and then another tuck
And then some organ removal
And finally, someone wanted firewood
And they paid the dealer to haul
What was left to the fire.
That corner was alive with neighbors once,
Mrs. Jones the pie-wagon lady, and Leo and Virginia,
And Carol and Phillip and Dave and Mac,
The gravel pit gave out. and Elliot’s,
And Uncle Ted Leung all left.
Dealers of stuff built tilt-ups and knockdowns and do-overs,
Windowless places so the sun can’t touch them.
Dealers made the little lane vanish, go away,
But they did it gradually, they thought no one
Would notice and no one did; first buildings
Closed it in, then a fence with a gate,
Then another building, and finally
The house went missing and there was no lane.