Outside My Old House

By Cordelia M. Hanemann

Outside My Old House


I, standing outside the house,
across the street, perhaps in the yard,
on the porch, somewhere, outside. 

Sunlight, as veneer, illuminates
without penetrating--shadows of dusk
streak across its façade--scans the surfaces,
revealing edges and crevices,
potholes of an abandoned building.

Too large and imposing to tear down,
too dark and imposing to enter,
it stands, bold, imperious,
as though it holds and withholds
a secret--closets and rooms of secrets,
something essential, 

Which I, standing outside the house,
across the street, perhaps in the yard,
on the porch, have missed and would
miss even if I were to go in, open the door	
which may or may not be locked, 
step over the threshold.

I feel left out, but somehow safer for that.

It looms across the street, the old house 
its Victorian pillars and candywork
--no it's called	gingerbread, a filligree	
	to lure Gretel or Hansel or both,
its chipped paint looming
in coffin-like, if not oven-like	, finality.

Shadows of dusk streak across its façade.

Frozen in the moment, barely lit
between day and night, a geometry of time,	
duration warring with ephemerality,
edges wavering in waning light.