The House Down the Road (poem)

It was built in '94,

Its walls white,

Its rooms empty,

The house down the road.

Its caretakers were afraid

That it would fall apart,

So they covered it up

And tried to protect it from time.

But they couldn't leave it empty,

And so the woodworker moved in.

He built miniature houses,

Decorated them like they were real.

He detested his new home,

Thought his toys more suitable,

So he neglected it,

The house down the road.

In drunken rages he'd return,

Curse the inadequacy of the house,

And paint the walls with holes

He would later cover with paper.

One day he left,

Found a more suitable home.

It was beautiful,

And collapsed two months later.

He didn't go back,

Not for longer than an occasional night.

On cold nights he'd break in,

And steal the heat he forsook.

When his visits stopped,

Someone else moved in.

The woodworker had skipped town.

The new tenant was softer.

The new tenant was a doctor,

And patched up the walls right,

Painted over the scars,

Secured its warmth.

Months later, the woodworker returned,

Having been homeless since,

With the memory of the house fresh,

And the desire for its stability and warmth.

When he arrived,

The doctor was tending to the garden.

But instead of trying to steal the house,

The woodworker smiled and left.

-Zero