A creak and hiss of the stained oak floor as I skim across its seedy surface.
Rusted nails poke up and scratch at the soles of my shoes.
The damp walls swell from the heat of August.
On the ceiling, cracks spread like vein work to the dingy chandelier,
Once dispersing a soft regal glow to the inhabitants,
Long since captives of their own demise.
In the parlor, curling strips of wallpaper roll down the sweaty walls,
Scuffed base boarding outlines the kitchen’s perimeter,
Interrupted only by the chewed entrance to a mouse’s den.
Drywall peaks out from behind the double jointed doorway,
The flesh and bones of the hung-over home.
Paint ebbs away in chunks, gathering on the wood floor in the corner.
A film of dust blankets every milky vase and the binding of every broken book.
I navigate my way into the dim guest room.
Light leaks through the planks that shield the window.
I make out the shapes of Victorian chairs and elaborate head dresses
Littered throughout the rotting home.
Water trickles down the tinted square tiles and collects in pools in the bathtub.
An aching house crumbling on its foundation,
Unwanted
Waiting on the corner Harrison Street in Greenwich.