Behind the Curtains

It is a mystery, this house,
a place you pass every day,
set a bit off the road,
paint peeling,
the window sashes slowly rotting.

The curtains are ragged,
ghostly tatters,
a tease, in a way,
allowing you to almost see.
Almost.

At night, there is a light in one window,
just enough to let you know
someone lives there.

About this poem

Houses. People. There are so many mysteries we pass every day,

The picture was taken outside Cambridge, NY

Tom