A Broken House Sits Empty



A stretched road cuts through endless plains of fear and hope.

The broken house sits empty. Cracked panes. Fallen shingles. Chipped paint.

Reflections of passersby persist.

The windows are a theater, the movie is sorrowed anger, but who is the viewer?

The funeral procession, a police chase, a hate parade, the family drowned in want. The movie appears to be running on long.

A rusty mailbox nailed to the front door is half cracked open; forever taking mail as if it had a choice.

Final notices, advertisements, a foreclosure notice, a call from the draft.

In the front yard, the tattered remains of a flag flutter on a bent pole in the hopes that someone will one day free it. The silent protests to a country that failed.

Dulled light from a censored sun apprehensively pours into a graffiti-covered garage through scattered bullet holes and fire damage.

Darkened light illuminates a wrecked car that sits on punctured tires and blocks of gold. No insurance. The owners lost and forgotten.

Ripped books scatter the floor of a living room while an unplugged T.V glows. It's playing the movie.

Tilted pictures show a family putting on a facade. Ephemeral friends smile with no teeth and crossed fingers.

A half-eaten meal is still hot on the table. Above, a tarnished cross waits.

The family's jobs are liquidated, like the remains of their closest possessions. The rainy day fund's experienced a hurricane.

In the backyard, a frail woman unknown to world pours her tears and last desires into the hardened dirt of a yard who wants nothing more than to be mowed.

She hopes that maybe a flower will grow.