No axes,
no hammers
on the pegboards
in the basement.

No kitchen knives, no
rolling pins smoothed and
patina-clothed from meals
without number
in the drawer
next to the stove.

No guitars in the closet
with their necks so worn
in certain spots 
upon the back and
up against particular frets
along the front 
that the seasoned eye 
could tell you, swiftly,
what each instrument
had played — 

this old house has been cleansed.  
Someone’s gone through it.
It’s all new wood and
updates — empty basement
walls where the pegboards once 
hung, empty closets that once held
costumes from Halloweens past,
shoes forgotten in the corners,
those infernal guitars.

A delightful period Colonial
updated with all the modern conveniences
where it used to have inconveniences —

scarce wall plugs, shallow cabinets,
drafty windows, a peculiar rattle
on nights when the wind came from 
exactly the right direction to cause
the eaves to whistle and shake —

it used to be able to talk.
It used to be full of stories,

but now there’s all that new wood and
all those tight and noiseless floors
and doors and heating ducts.

It’s silent, longing to begin
its inevitable fall 
back into wear and want and 
clutter and disrepair, back 
into chatter and clamor
(through stain and splinter)
about those who live here;

it awaits 
restoration from
house
to home.