"The House"

I’ve been to a few of them: houses
that someone has left behind
for the living to empty out year
by year, whether it’s the one
they loved the most, the one
who remembered the first time
he looked at the house and thought
of the job ahead of him, even
while the mother, the father, the friend
was lying in the next room
needing water and waiting to say hi.

At the moment the house becomes
his, there is no moment of silence.
Outside, two teenagers holding Cokes
and cell phones complain loudly that they
wouldn’t have to walk if they had a car,
while he waits for the ambulance.

Now the house is holding its breath,
growing gray and losing windows.
What does he say when someone asks,
“Is the house empty?”
“All of her stuff is still there,” I suppose.

He leaves it there, not waiting, just living
his life with a bleak task for him to do.
And the house sits on the familiar lot,
waiting for a ghost that never comes.