Brown Place Poem by Melba Christie

The house no longer stands
on the corner of Brown Place
where it was the happiest once
It succumbed
from loneliness
Someone torched it
to put it out of its pain
leaving behind a few remnants
The old cyclone fence
still hangs in there
to protect
the memories we've forgotten
Dad's favorite shrub survived somehow
Mom's stone bench
covered with green moss
Reminisces about the good
old times
The landscape carpeted
with shattered pieces
of the hopes
that once lived there
let the dandelions
sprout and squeeze through
to greet the sun.
They form an unusual Mosaic
fragmented coke bottles,
mulch bits, newspaper clips,
flattened milk cartons (with the face of a
missing girl)
crushed foam coffee cups,
and hundreds of soda pop caps.
Pigeons strut and peck
at morsels of dried bread
because someone still
cares about them.
Familiar sounds and smells
recoup and seep through
my nostalgia
recapturing serene moments
of childhood play
seeking and hiding
and I hear Ivan's voice
count and giggle uncontrollably
because he was
designated 'it'
and I hear the shuffle of his shoes
and he yells out,
'Ready or not here I come.'