House

 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.