A house, empty of all
but the echoes of memories.
Settees and chairs
with no more guests to host,
the kettle's hiss quenched,
an oven turned empty chamber,
the living room, once vibrant
with raucous laughter,
similarly silent.
The memories of generations,
what the retailers would call
reduced to clear,
sitting on display stands
till the "for sale" sign disappears
and the offer expires.
(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site which asked for a poem turning jargon used in a professional setting into some kind of metaphor. Whether or not I achieved that here is up for debate.)
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