The crickets chirp, sing to the starry night.
The floorboards creak and moan of old age.
The wallpaper stands rigid, but cracked and peeling.
The motorcycles rev and talk back and forth by the road.
The two old Volvos settle in on the grassy lot.
A musty, old-yet-comforting smell seeps everywhere in the house.
I turn over in bed, to look at moonlight streaming through the gaping crack in the shade.
Across the street, the antique store is boarded up,
Its precious relics waiting until tomorrow.
The corner store is closed, sodas and water closed up,
Coffee makers quiet, until the morning brew.
Down at the pond, the bathhouse looms quietly, old green paint on the outside.
Swimsuits and towels hang on racks in rooms, swaying in a soft breeze.
The day’s sand tracked in is leaking through the old planks on the floor,
Falling onto the ground beneath.
The raft bobs in the pond, surrounded by dark glistening water.
Up the dirt road to Drew Farm,
Wild animals roam the backyard.
In the attic, the lights are off.
In the room at the back, mattresses, chairs, tables, and papers are left sprawled out
In the middle of planning.
In Airy Cottage, the lights are out,
The radio, always playing orchestras, is off and quiet.
Back in the Little House, all the screen doors are locked
And the porch furniture stands still on the porch.
This is Gilmanton at night.