The house, a burnt shell
stands mutely, years after.
Wind and time working loose
the boards nailed up
to close the blackened spaces
once windows, once doors.
Around the town
quiet conversations,
'when will they tear it down?'
an uncomfortable reminder
of death and emotional desolation,
on this street of shutters and porches.
Less attention paid
to the dilapidated house
with the peeling paint
darkened windows and
junk cars in the yard.
one, a tragedy of painful memory,
one, a tragedy of painful future.
(c)2013 Noreen Braman
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