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Description
Not houses standing
in even rows
red and gold lit windows
winking in the dark.

Not walls papered with
glossy eyed faces-
the whispers of poetry.

Not voices singing softly
from beneath closed doors
shrieking out of tune strings.

But mounds of unconsecrated earth,
piles of gravel, mountains of sand,
a dirty river curving its slender body
around the city's back,
dead trees leaning on each other
in the battle-worn fields behind Sandwich Towne.

But white and off-white
unwashed space where there should
be touches of blue, green, and gold,
entire sections of naked surface
shrouded.

But the murmur of a television
entertaining an empty room
or a sleeping figure,
the muffled thud of heavy footsteps,
doors creaking on rusted hinges and slamming
down the hall.