I see the red carpet, polished floorboards,
The sash windows with shutters varnished open forever,
I see the stone porch laced with wisteria,
The hat stand,
The mosaic tiles.
I see the gallery,
The front stairs that rise gracefully up
Below the solid handrail.
I see the roof,
The front lawn,
The woods where we walked on Sundays.
I can hear the exact way the glass rattles in the door as it shuts,
The way the gong rings for dinner,
The clock that ticks and chimes, ticks and chimes from the shadows.
I can hear your whistle moving from room to room but
I can’t see your face.
This scene is lifeless,
No one lives here anymore.