by Leo Sexton
A poem about an empty foreclosed house
The rose bush stands naked
thinning from neglect.
Its’ leaves falling onto the weeds,
and the last flower is fading to brown.
A lonely bud droops, destined to never open.
Like the house behind it, the bush is dying,
dying a slow painful death.
The house that once heard joy and laughter
Now sits empty with an eerie silence.
Not a sound, like Yankee Stadium in December.
The For Sale sign leans to one side, and
a public auction notice is taped to the window
Old dreams are gone,
like leaves blowing in the wind.