Walking It Out 

We’ve seen it. Vacant house, yard grass gone to seed. 
Ancient apple toppled into the clothesline.
Neighborhood kid breaks one window and when 
next you drive by the house is broken-tooth grinning.

A family fight starts it. Someone gets cold-shouldered, 
soon no one’s talking. Resentment grows like cellar mold 
even bleach can’t kill. Nor’easter rips a patch of shingles off. 
Soffits start to rot. Goldenrod and thistle stake their claim.

It’s too far-gone for fix-up when plaster chunks off lathe. 
Neighbors grouse about the drop in property values. 
When all that’s sodden has fallen and the front door 
sheds its hinges, we stop looking each time we pass.

We’ve got one like this. Just up the road. Last autumn
wind pushed a giant willow over, snapping the ridgepole. 
You can’t help but think of a buckled linoleum floor,
kitchen cupboards nearly sheared off the wall. 

Clapboards soiled black, chimney caved. A sumac juts out 
the window. Seedlings sprout from sills. You know 
the days you wonder where your life went? You can 
find it there, digging something up in the basement.