The drapes were a nice flourish
Decades ago when they first were hung.
But now they’re a wispy dust-trap
Barely blocking the sun.
Lived in and unloved,
It’s a house that never was a home.
A tomb for tchotchkes
Dumped in a box, forever alone.
Not really an estate,
So much as a sprawling wreck.
Echoing its owner,
Steeped in sadness and dreck.
No family will move in,
Or buy their memories.
A truck will haul it off.
The end will be quiet with no one to see.
© 2021 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.
Writing and Photography by Jeff E. Brown 