#337 the old place

the sound of the train calls to the empty house and its dust-filled stories

where once a table was the hub, now its creaks bash the silence

the stairs that once carried little ones and big ones to breakfasts and bathrooms and more

now sag and droop from loneliness

the swingset stands, rust creeping up its legs, past the high grass that chokes its memories of laughter and insignificant tears