Old House by Lorri Ventura

Awaiting demolition
The vacant house sags tiredly on its lot
Cracked windowpanes stare defeatedly at a bulldozer
Creeping steadily forward on lawn-lacerating tracks
In its final moments, the aged structure conjures ghosts
As faded as the stained, peeling wallpaper
Visions of children splash raucously, sloppily,
In its pink tiled bathroom
Doors slam in anger
And burst open in welcome
Sunbeams tickle the faces of late sleepers
At holiday gatherings
Families crowd first at the kitchen table
And then around the piano
The abode feels sapped but satisfied
With the knowledge that it served well
Today the house takes its final measure
It creaks its hardwood floors, gouged by cleated footwear
Jostles moth-eaten Persian carpets rolled up against the walls
Shakes its mouse dropping-covered countertops
Wriggles the wires that dangle above each room as testament
To the former locations of ceiling lights
Sections of its framework are torn off,
Mourned by now useless nails that protrude, dagger-like,
Menacing the passage between living and dining rooms
The house quakes with the weight of memories
The bulldozer’s inexorable approach
Warns the old house that it is time
For surrender to the future —
A trophy home intended to impress
The once venerable homestead heaves one last shudder
(An onlooker swears she hears it sigh)
As the mighty machine relentlessly pushes
Up against its outer walls
Then, with a mighty roar that sounds somehow celebratory,
The old house collapses



Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator living in Massachusetts. Her poems also have been featured in All Poetry, Mad Swirl, Parapraxis, Quabbin Quills, and Writing in a Woman's Voice.