Tonight this house
seems shut in thought,
the porch dim, shades drawn
over closed windows.
Inside, a single lamp burns
beside a wooden rocker
& a small black table. In the kitchen
a faucet drips & a transistor radio
plays. Beside the sink,
dishes drain, a green striped towel
hangs from a curtain rod.
The refrigerator hums.
What dry bones are there in the crawlspace
what lived in these walls?
Tonight this house
is a set stage,
an illusion of the domestic
where lives play out
& dust settles
like a late winter snow.
-Greg Stanford
