The House at Porter’s Bridge
Three stories and once a mansion,
paint on the clapboards long disintegrated.
No running water. My father wires the place
for electric. Walls weep in rainy weather.
Under the right-of-way, a tension line
snaps and falls, scatters the laundry
in the side yard. Forced to move. Fire
company uses it for practice.
In dreams it still stands. A girl again,
I climb the stairs to bed, a cavern opens
into the hillside, filled with objects.
Awake, I only remember a double piano.
What are the things that fill the space?
The debris of our lives? A tiny ironing board
and iron I got for Christmas in 1954?
My father's rocker? Our kitchen table?
Or the dreams of eleven souls, cast aside,
certain they would never come to pass?
Late in life, brother Mark went back in,
drove a red Corvette up Colora Road.
3
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