Sad Old House

Sad old house for sale. Eleven
baggy rooms, two weepy baths.

I lived here so long the boiler
wheezes my name. Washer and dryer

tired of my tired old underwear.
Refrigerator standing open,

the memory of thousands of meals
adrift in the ether. I blame

no one for the broken wallboard,
oxidized aluminum siding,

trim paint chipped in layers thick
as toenails. I blame no one,

not even the wheezy realtor
who can’t persuade eager couples

to fix up this fixer-upper
and pay the mortgage with rent

from half the house while filling
the other half with their love.

How often I hogged the verandah
to watch the summer rain flout

its puddle-making powers.
How many neighbors waved past

while I sat there reading Crime
and Punishment, Candide, Light

in August. One night I crept
into the back yard and peered inside

a grave that had opened moments
before, the earth smell as fresh

as bread from the oven. A coffin
yawned and a lean figure rose

and shook my hand and thanked me
for willing him back to life. The scar

of that blasphemy’s still visible
just beyond the tiny garden plot.

I’m sorry this house won’t sell,
sorry the new asphalt shingles

betray a sagging roofline, sorry
the famous elm in the front yard

has driven its taproot through me,
and sorry that attic and basement

ooze so many unlovable ghosts,
some but not all of them mine.