JOHN GREY

The Empty House

I inhabit an empty house.
Except for the spiders
that carry on these silent conversations
with the dust.
And the television
with its infinite cast of characters
and passing traffic
that never misses an opportunity
to shine its lights on bare walls.
There’s nothing here
to keep a person truly occupied.
That’s why no one’s ever moved in.
The thump of the radiator is not a person.
Nor is the floorboard creak
or the rattle of windows.
Or the sparse array of food in the cupboards,
the cans of beer in the refrigerator.
Nor the lumpy couch.
Nor the ratty carpet.
The books might have been once
but it takes a reader
to invite the characters in.
No, this house is as vacant
as poor man's pockets.
The clothes in the closet don't count.
Nor does the razor in the bathroom.
The bed is solid enough
but it's not human.
Likewise the shadows
and their near relatives,
the photos on the mantel.
Not even my presence
can alter the fact –
there's no one living here.
So don't bother to knock. Or call.
I've tried that myself
and I got no answer.

 

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