My House

holds spirits of the past like the
kerosene lamp in my dark
basement crawl,
 
and the names and the dates at the
top of the wall that I stand
on a box top to read.
 
A Mr. and Mrs. live in our rafters,
staring through ceiling at
we who don't leave;
 
critical of carpet and curtains and cooking,
and wondering what all that
darn cat can see.

poem by Rick Stokes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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