Metanoia

Leftovers

         Leftovers

When we passed the burnt-out house,
all that was left was the foundation,
built into the hill. Not all the rubbish
was cleared away. A turned over sofa,
An old easy chair, rocking slightly,
as if its owner had left his place
to get a snack before watching TV.
Weeds grew up next to the chair,
looking like they were deliberately
arranged to decorate the little nook
between it and the sofa.
A vacuum stood at attention,
as if any moment someone would
plug it into the airy walls and it would
roar to life, sweeping away the rest
of the debris of a life long burnt
away. Leftovers, discarded to dream
quietly as they meld with the dirt,
faded by strong sun and downpours
of rain, a ghostly presence imitating
the posture of life in the open air.