Old Farmhouses

I have always been fascinated by
farmhouses, old abandoned wrecks that huddle
along the sides of backroads,
stare mutely as progress flashes by
on fresh Goodyears.
Like the skeletons of long-
dead animals
the ramshackle memorials hearken back decades
to when they were filled with life and activity,
when they mattered. Windows edged
with broken glass peer out at me,
seeming to cry a warning:
“enjoy your life while it is yours, take every opportunity
that comes your way,
sink your teeth into the succulent rind of experience,
savor the flavors that run down your chin, the blood of joy. Once
we were as you are, vibrant and young,
clear-skinned and well-groomed, home to
families and friends, center of commerce and communion.
Now we rest in repose, gray-hued and gaunt, a decrepit memory
that fades from relevance and hovers on the edge of
oblivion, only
flashes of the past in the windows of time flying by
on fresh Goodyears.”