The Empty House

by Michael Salcman

I once stayed in a friend’s house without even a can of soda
at hand, a not so mysterious shell
because there’s no one to purchase the groceries
and no one who lives there who can bear to eat them.

So there’s nothing to drink in the house of mourning
and no one who visits really wants a drink — well
you know what’s coming.

The house sits in the midst of a tame and terrible desert —
true story —
as luxurious as the antechamber of Hell,
a subdivision on the edge of a historic city,
and its front gate has a welcome bell
rung coming and going
but not by me.

Since this is a true story there’s not much else to tell.
The owner lives elsewhere, paralyzed
but moving; he’s afraid to sell.