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The House Still Lives

A Poem for Small, Quiet Lives

The silverfish lays her eggs where the blue walls meet

As chitin-hardened feel hike the hardwood floors

Below door frames, alight with dust woven webs

Spun to moth flustered drawers

To the dresser, packed only with linens, once clean

To the now clean pantry, emptied by colony, by colony

Of tiny marching infantries

And hungry mouths a plenty

Crawling ghouls, clans of roaches, shells spotted red

Spotted black, in the dead air, in the absence of human noise

Nowhere on earth do abandoned structures stand

Though the hands of the land owners have long left their hearths

They are only neglected by us

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The House Still Lives
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