Enter the long-abandoned house
and you might feel an urge
to run. As if you had invaded
a sacred space.
Outer rooms are a disaster of dust and mouse droppings.
The inner room is like a pyramid of preservation.
The odor, like decaying cheddar cheese, slaps your nose,
you remember that mummies had no brains.
The sight of oak hardback chairs with
carefully cushioned seat covers,
each donned with fading sunflowers
assails your eyes.
The previous occupant had abandoned a tan, suede satchel
full of knitting needles, Propped precariously
on the floor near abandoned wine.
