Sundown, Sunset Crescent

We closed the door today

on our place.

Our 60s dream house,

ranch style,

for a family with mod cons and

little quirks - arguments and a laundry chute.

Three bedrooms,

it slept five children

and later babysat their kids.

Its polished floors

lost their shine in the 70s,

covered up with wool blend and new high heels.

The sounds of summer,

of old Frankie

and the Beachboys hung there

in the rumpus room,

brooding just near the wall where

the ducks were, before they flew the coop.

I drove past later to say goodbye,

to make the sign, bless the space

and worry that the loving

ghosts it holds would be all alone,

lost without us.

I found it sleeping,

windows closed

with just a breath of presence.

Like a friend passed away,

the same, but different.

Sundown, had left the building.