Poetry Wednesday #20

I was cleaning up my room the other day, and found a stack of papers.  Most of it was trash, but this weeks poem was there, buried between years-old notes and other such nonsense.  I wrote this when I was 15, right after we moved from the city in one state to the suburbs in another.  It's not bad, there are some things I'd change or "fix," but I don't cringe when reading it–unlike most of the other poetry I wrote at 15–so I'll reproduce it here faithfully.  You may end up seeing a rewrite eventually.  Oh, and I think there's a picture of the house on my parents computer, if I remember I'll edit this post to add it.  ~Amber

The House On Karnes BLVD

The ancient face

            is closed and silent now

     old stucco skin

and a hat of shingles

are shaded under an umbrella of leaves and branches

Just behind the wall of trees

            besides the weird

                                    severed

head

a constant river of cars flows

            dams itself

flows again

the babble of this dangerous brook

is deafening

                                                        at times

a lullaby

                                                        at others

I remember the house

            I remember it's indifferent stare

as I walked to the car never to return

                        in my mind it is empty

though a new family is in

                                     it's grasp

      laughing and playing

                          listening to the cars drive by

just out of sight

Just out of sight

                        not out of mind