Of This, I am More or Less Certain

Last to leave, I look at the cabins,
Forlorn in the heat, abandoned again.
All the chatter has ended. The family
Is gone. The towels and sheets are
In heaps on each floor. What food
Wasn't eaten or taken is stacked in the
Garbage, and every refrigerator and
All of the air conditioners moan.
Someone left up a picture they colored
In crayon, and under a bed is the shoe
That nobody could find. The maids
Will remove them, and, over twelve
Months, though the families of others
Will enter their rooms, the cabins
Will mourn, cheering only when we
Have returned.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 42 times
Written on 2010-08-20 at 00:31

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