Old House

by Mark Nenadov

I felt like a bat
navigating that dining room
to the tune of a sun
which pierced through the shades
with crusty golden rays.


The sun came up empty
except for piercing crusty shadows
of darkness-soaked cobwebs which
Mrs. Marshall couldn’t keep up with
as time fluttered away.


Once people chattered there
I could hear their shoes clicking
preparations for a ballroom dance
but the only frantic heartbeats there
come from devilish rodent nests.


The library was creaky
if only moths were historians
there would be a good memoir here
they’d flutter in the march of time
absorbing paper treasures
in this parody of a used book store
where Mr. Marshall once sat
on a tattered chair
reading volume upon volume
of short stories and poems and memoirs.


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