By Keri Johnson
Old Man Gibson’s house
Sits abandoned;
It’s rumored that the Amish bought it
After he died there, alone.
Its white paint flakes away
And it’s beginning to look naked,
As it sits on the roadside, the state route;
A brick well house
Color-patterned and waiting
Accompanies it.
Hillsides cradle the empty twins below
Who whisper,
“For what am I barren?
“Who has forsaken me of my trees?
“Of my company?”
Cattle sit patiently
‘Round the empty house
Awaiting winter’s rains.
Keri Johnson is a poet and journalist from southeast Ohio.
