The Sadness of the House

The contents accumulate,

an aggregation of desires,

chosen with economic care

and young hopes of future ease,

only to be discarded

sacrificed on fashion’s altar.

TV tubes morph into flat screens,

their ganglia of wires are pruned

and the once loved leather lounges

are deemed unfashionable,

despised, they no longer please,

their kindly embraces now spurned.

Evidence is erased by paint

of youthful progeny and marks.

No toys litter the dust-free floor,

no boyfriends clamour at the door,

just the third dog waiting for

a visit by the family throng.

Juicers, used once, electric fans,

artificial flowers, pans,

huddle in the attic gloom,

their ruminations scarce disturbed

by thermal insulation

or new air-conditioning ducts.

Below, the beds no longer creak

with joint or lone furtive desire,

but still bear the weight of sleep

waiting their turn for renewal

of duvets or mattresses

or that last journey to the dump.

When the front door slams one last time,

the empty rooms can exhale 

the final breath of occupation,

and listen to the world outside

for the next engine on the drive

to relieve the sadness of the house.