An abused, amber armchair, abandoned in the attic.

Bygone, battered brown boxes, buried in the basement.

A couple of contemptible, half-consumed candles.

In the den; dormant, disordered droves of DVDS and dishpans.

The nest of an eastern bluebird, exiled to the eaves. 

The flick, flick, flicking of a forgotten faucet.

Gloopy goose shit, caked onto the gabled roof of the garage.

A haunted, hollow hottub, haloed with horrible hoops of hypochlorite.

An infernal insect infestation in the ice chest.

Jumbles of jam jars, juice cartons and milk jugs.

In the kitchen; a kaleidoscopic mess of knives, k-Cups, calcified ketchup bottles.

As for the lounge: a languishing lilac loveseat, lewdly lopped and lacerated.

Then, a murderous, mildewy musk in the mudroom.

In the reading nook; nebulous needles and nodular nails.

The old ochre desk in the office is obliterated; omitted.

Poisonous hemlock propagates in the peepholes of the plywood portico.

A quilt, a quiver, a quiet quartz clock.

Rodents reeling in the rafters.

Salmon-colored Sea Breeze, eternally sealed into the shabby carpet.

Timber and terracotta tiles in tatters on the tarmac.

Uncertain as to what’s in the unreachable utility room.

Or the source of the vile, vomitous smell voyaging from the vents.

What wonders have these walls—these worn-out windows witnessed?

On the floor; xeroxed x-rays of a fractured xiphoid process.

Yield to the yellow jackets, and the yarrows in the yard.

And watch for a zealous zephyr, like a spirit, zipping through the zinnias.