WOOD PLACE

A space; a home.
A domicile, between Warsaw and Roland,
it is where I grew.

For three generations
we called it ours, passed down, this station;
a fine and noble inheritance.

Cousins around as well,
and there I did dwell
until my bachelorhood started waning.

We all moved onward
and Mom died. For Dad, it became
a source of pride.

This carpenter, man of vision,
remodeled the house in a grand revision,
a king and his castle, surrounded

not by a moat, only neighbors,
extended family related or non,
until things started changing, and life went on.

Free and open, shared wide spaces,
coming and going to all of these spaces,
but the winds of change blew off of the lake.

Along the line, it stopped feeling like “home”,
a prodigal son, off on his own with distance,
staying away with stubborn resistance.

And life went on, changing things,
a liver cancer, and all it brings,
Dad’s appeal, sealing a return most welcome.

“Bringing Up Father” or so it seemed,
not a bit how I’d have dreamed, a role reversal
a love dispersal, a slow decline to the sad disease.

And then he died. Wood Place was now
just a space. Not a home, just a house,
the place was empty, not even a mouse.

“For Sale” the sign said, a deep divide,
a divvy up of all inside, only redemption
was what I took, stored in every dusty nook.

A buyer found, but at what cost,
an obvious satchel of memories lost,
but the space was closed in, a fortress constructed.

Totally sealed, a dirty deal,
vicious guard dogs made it surreal,
and a dignity lost for this storied old place.

A den of iniquity, a larcenous pharmacy,
police busts and stings, a cell of larceny.
A memorable home once so good,
but now, there goes the neighborhood.
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