My father owned the house for fifty years,
And all those fifty years I had a key.
New people live there now, and it appears
They love the place. That’s gratifying to me.
But still at times I feel the house is mine.
The empty garbage bins - I want to haul
Them up the drive. I leave them there. It’s fine.
The chores belong to them. Not mine at all.
Most days I walk by twice, it’s on the way
To where I catch the train. I feel its presence
More than I see it, as my memories play
On automatic - mostly rather pleasant.
I have an edifice complex. That’s a pun.
I carry it with me, as a dutiful son.
No comments:
Post a Comment