There is a house on Southeast Bank.
It simmers as it has done since the 1900s,
it's been derelict for at least a decade now.
Sometimes, the local teens hangout and drink underage
but mostly it sits
Patiently.

There is a living room in the house.
The house that sits on Southeast Bank.
A leather reclining armchair lays, sprawled across the carpet.
A carpet in which the previous mother of the house would've claimed "costs hundreds" and "came from Egypt".

As daylight stretches toward the bookcase.
The bookcase in the room,
The room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.
It's not unexpected to see
all the dust that flitters in the air
dancing to the tune of what was once life
a place for the living.
Reminders that once there may have been a family here.
But who knows.

Who knows what happened to them,
did the kids grow up too fast?
Did the parents split up?
Did someone die before their time was due?
And it's all written in the dust.
The dust that haunts the bookcase
the bookcase in the room,
the room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.