The House on Rose Lane (a very rough draft)

The asbestos shingle fell off long ago,

Along the wall in front,

Where the living room hides behind closed curtains.

She won’t recall when or where it even went.


The yard, larger than most,

Along this back street of small homes

And odd-sized yards.

Is only slightly overgrown,

In the way that chores

sneak past habit,

To sporadic neglect.


Ringed in a low fence,

That once kept a dog in,

Or a playing child safe from harm.


Simple things like that, they once had,

Or at least dreamed of.


But years of cigarettes and drink,

Took him

From her,

In a long night of oblivion.


Happily-ever-after into eternity

Came to an end,



But she stopped crying long ago.


The days now might looked rehearsed,

Her shift at the grocery store,

Unchanged for the last three years.


There was the time her brother came out

And the fellow down the street,

Who would call from time to time,

Their appearances so long ago,

But seeming like yesterday.

In a place where time keeps pace

With the falling of an asbestos shingle

From the living room wall.


She rarely looks me in the eye,

Like she did then,

Pulling off a cigarette,

While the sun casts crimson

Across a high cloud deck

With a single opening out east,

Where she imagines great blue winged dragons

Will fly in,

And dance around the yard.

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