The sign is posted on the porch I've walked many times this way before through seasons warm and cold but no one appears at the door. An abandoned house that says Welcome must have been somebody's abode— leaves me guessing who might have lived in a happy home in this town where few might wander unless they've lost their way, no highways feed into these streets, just old Chevy trucks parked by stacks of hay. A wind chime blows with wind's moody strokes each time I stroll by, but the windows seem so tightly sealed, no visitors knock to say hi. It must have been a place of joy for some kind-hearted folks who lived and left the signpost still hanging on the porch.
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
-
I drop pebbles slowly
watch them fall
in a shallow stream -
she reaches out
touches fog
she had hoped
for the sun -
Walk me through
your caveshow me the petroglyphs
the stories
you have laboriously pecked on the walls
with your hammer stone,
carved in the light of a lantern
where shadows cast gloom. -
I am but dust
a grain of sand
blowing whichever way
the wind blows
in the universe -
You were the guest at my table picking on the corners of the table cloth, fingers nervously folding and unfolding mutilated pride.
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