As if the house wasn’t depressing enough –
with its cracked and peeling paint,
the lonely smell of propane,
a century’s worth of cigarette smoke
laced through yellow-tinged curtains,
and the stale smell of dead bacon grease,
heavy in the air.
Hopelessness gathered like dust,
as lasting as the
stained linoleum, covering the kitchen.
Second hand furniture
sagged in a hopeless, little living room,
while children with dirty faces
and vacant eyes
dreamt through cloudy,
The overgrown yard,
a graveyard for a 70’s era Ford truck
and a slumping Oldsmobile the size of a boat.
A dog on a chain ran back and forth,
excited to see anyone pass by,
knocked over his water dish
Drab hues of a hard life blend into
the incessant rain.
The only color left, a fluorescent green
large mouth bass mailbox,
probably a gift.
What dreams lived there,
and where have they gone?