Old House

By John I. Blair

I live in an old house.

Not antebellum old,
That hints at dark sins
Done by bushy-bearded
Great great granddads,

Nor New England old
Where Cape Cod boxes
Weather in Atlantic storms
Till wood blends with the sea,

Nor yet adobe old,
With vega-ceilinged
Thick-walled rooms
Like dwelling in the earth.

But old enough.

Enough for secrets,
Rotted places in its heart,
Spaces in the walls
One never would suspect.

Enough for scars,
Mars with causes
I can only guess
And make up tales about.

Enough that more
Has been forgot
Than is remembered
Through the drifting years.

Old enough its end
Might be nearer than its start.

©2011 John I. Blair