The house down the road stayed empty
for two whole years, maybe three.
No dog, no car, no washing hung,
no smoke from any chimney.
The porch leaned left.
One shutter banged.
Tall weeds climbed up the steps.
A window on the top right side
caught sunset and looked wet.
Kids said a man had died in there.
One said he heard a chain.
One swore he saw a woman dressed
in white go past the pane.
I never saw a ghost myself.
I only saw the place
and felt that strange tight little pull
you get from an empty space.
One day they came with boards and tools
and trucks that backed and beeped.
By fall a family lived inside.
Their baby cried. Their old dog slept.
The porch got fixed. The grass got cut.
Blue curtains took the room.
And all the ghost talk dried right up
like rain on a hot noon.
Still, part of me was sorry then.
Not sad, just sort of strange.
I think I liked that there had been
one house the world forgot to claim.