Mother’s going on a trip,

a new steady at the helm,

another crooked smile,

a visage no more inviting than before

to you;

you suppose

he really loves her.

The house has seen sadder days:

the rage of Uncle Sam who

stole Papa’s heart 

and soul with a finger

and left you by the window 

as the bus chugged

down the hill; 

or mother’s mother’s Mama, 

who would’ve beat you all

to the finish line if

it hadn’t been for that 

meerschaum pipe 

she held so tightly as she rocked and

stared beyond the fence,

her pockets stuffed with shag 

smuggled in from fields far away.

The room has seen better days:

the yellow wallpaper hangs at the top,

what’s yellow was blue was green and

you could never sit in that chair;

but the window’s all yours now,

you suppose;

you'll watch,

as the new Plymouth 

kicks up tomorrow’s dust  

and speeds

down the hill and

out of view,

the end of the world.