1/23/11

Chipping the paint off an old window pane,

One might hear, as expected, a scraping refrain.

But, when listening close, you’ll attend verbose ghosts,

Which it’s dense layered lead, oil, and latex contains.

You may hear tender whispers and passionate vows,

Precious, desperate, vespers and blasphemous rows,

Great laughter and rapture, dread hopeless disaster,

And volatile secrets which mean nothing now.

The first loves and lost loves and loves found again,

Dividing debates fought between lifelong friends,

Some screaming, some sighing, a small infant crying,

A comforting rite with a breath at the end.

And among all these flecks, you may even detect,

Your own words that were heard by the walls now and then.