This house is as old as a man who can
barely stand and walk with his cane.
Its stucco walls used to smell
of acrylic and enamelvandalized with crayons by tiny hands,
muted by family squabbles keeping family affairs within,
deafened by a blasting sensurround stereo,
that sent the dogs barking
much to the dismay of Miss Cruz,
the spinster neighbor who always concluded:
"he's high on reefers once more,
mesmerized by the devil's songs:
'Electric Funeral, Paranoid and Fairies Wear Boots'"
when in fact, all he did was wonder
about apples and cream and Mrs. Wagner Pies.
Rectangular-roofed tile windows miss a few
like teeth that have fallen off with age.
From where the scent of the matriarch's cooking flowed,
or the clatter of silverware,
the clanging of glasses were heard
together with the busy chatter of wagging tongues
that always accompanied dinner.
the green lawn where a broken swing sat unnoticed
has been dressed differently with time.
First festooned with balloons
and littered with spaghetti noodles,
coupled with puttanesca sauce and candy wrappers
on his seventh birthday,
stenched of retch and booze by drunken guests
on his 21st and the following year,
adorned with roses on his wedding day.
Roof that's worn like a hat over its head,
repaired countless times,
now looks like a man with a toupee
that withstood storms that ran at least 200 miles,
defied sweltering heat of the summer sun
Its Victorian door squeaks
welcomed so many and bade goodbye to a few
Yes, this house is old
but so am I