The red house is just a shell now,
Roof rotting where it used to be nailed down,
The coverings of the window air conditioners hang around like long lost friend wannabes,
Weeds beckon to the sun like worshippers standing willy- nilly with their eyes closed and hands outstretched.
I never had deep conversations there,
Maybe about the storm supposedly coming,
Or the Gates of Hell hot summer that brought the omnipresent bugs,
Mrs. Cooper was her name, as she bent over the low stone fence and offered her hand.
She was kindly, as was her husband, and was glad for the company-or so I thought,
My husband and I were frequent visitors to the canal on the Savannah River,
Back during the time there was no cell service and the Cooper's were the only bright spot with a landline.
Of course now there is no reason.
My husband found an old fish camp down a dusty road behind the plastic toilets,
That beckoned and repelled,
Visions of slithering snakes and all kinds of woodland menaces filled my mind,
I never ventured far beyond the stone walls,
It was a mighty lonely place,
With only a hard packed walking trail,
And a stone fence to keep encroaching progress,
At bay.
