Let Me Repeat That

The thing is, you stop. You walk around.
Look. Your eyes take in the details
and use them.

You ponder. You wonder.
You peer in windows and wonder
if the floors will hold you

as if somehow you can tell strength in the looking,
knowing better from your own life the
fallacy of that idea.

More times than not, you go in.
Listen to the wind through broken windows.
Listen to creaking of floorboards.

Your father taught you to notice the details.
He taught you the detective work of abandoned buildings
and your mother taught you the harder work

of listening to abandoned souls.
Between them, you are somehow whole
despite all that has gone before,

left with this fascination for the abandoned,
for the neglected, the left to slowly fall apart
over years, over decades. Beautiful ruins,

all worth saving.
Let me repeat that,
all worth saving.

About this poem.

It is pretty well known among my friends that I have a weakness for abandoned buildings, Homes. Factories. Barns. Churches. I often stop an at least take pictures when I come on one. Nearly as often I let myself in.

A poem about that proclivity. A poem about abandonment. A poem about grace, human and spiritual both.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken somewhere along route 22a between Fair Haven and Vergennes, Vermont.