Portrait of a House

I should show you the spooky house
you say. And you do. Eleven o'clock at night,
car window rolled down, I shrink in the passenger seat
from whatever spooks and haunts might come flying
out of the black box in the trees.
But none do and as we drive away you ask
if I can feel the sadness too. We come back
the next day when the sun is out,
hood popped up alongside the road
to give any passersby a reason. Ignoring
the NO TRESPASSING sign and the feeble
lone board across the doorway, I take pictures
of shattered debris on a moss-rugged porch
and empty rooms with rotting walls
draped in bird and bat droppings. But you think
the best part is the iridescent shingles shining pink
and purple and green through leafy shadows -
a trait my C-41 Kodak film can't appreciate.
The house is like a little old man on a rocking chair
of earth, without a family and no health care,
only gap-toothed windows, sagging stairs, and
thinning floorboards. I doubt it's very old -
a tarot card found in the front yard
says 1978 - but no one is there,
so I make sure to close the door when we leave,
wrapping the twine handle around a nail, taking one
last picture before we go.