Two stories of dilapidated wood and brick,
stand proud on an almost forgotten road.
The shutters lay piled off to either side
like they were flower petals and the wind whispers,
“He loves me. He loves me not.”

The heavy oak door is thrown away.
There is no need to guard the secrets
of these halls anymore.
No more paths to freedom
they have highways to the North,
no need to sell illegal booze
a store on the corner sells it half off,
the laws have all changed like the sands
of the Coastal Waterway.

Once it was grandeur.
The red brick walls bright
as cardinal feathers,
columns of serene ivory,
a wraparound porch with banisters
of the same sheen as pearls.
A perfect meeting place
for any occasion.

The porch is riddled with holes
from where a mob chased a runaway
one fall afternoon.
The bricks are dull as forgotten silver
tarnished by years of neglect.

You stand by the abandoned husk,
with a wife and son pulled in close
and tell him
“This will be our new home.”