Junkshop In an Old House

Based on a painting by Rudolfo Ragodon: Junkshop in an Old House



I remember him who built this house.
With his calloused hands
He would saw, and shave
Each wooden plank to its finest measure.
Making sure each window,
Pillar, was in line as it should be.
To and fro he went from his
Empty
Lot, as if
Pouring his life into this
Vacancy.

Though his house did not look much different
From the rest, to fair itself, when finally finished.
Windows square, passive and agreeable.
And a porch that stretched from end
To end conformed to common taste.
It was his stand,
His achievement
Which stood
Its humble height
For all to see.
And his warmest friends
Filled
His walls throughout
The years that passed.

But time, as time does,
Grows old and forgets.
This house he left to stand
Soon followed in his stead.
As age wills it to a finer decay.
The roof
Grows as thin
As the memories it held.
And the wood
Blends more and
More into the darkness of the
Night.

No one knows
What this house once was,
Instead of what it is now,
Except maybe for me, who shares the same
Fate.