Dust Bin Poem by James McLain

It is at the end, the end of the road, the house is,
the house in which you grew up.
It has passed away, to another to start life's journey anew.
The stones pulled down,
to be stored with the others in the back.
The grass is worn shinny,
once green,
now pinkish brown, torn and aged.
The door to the garage, is warped chipped paint flakes
outsides smaller in flakes to the ground.
The trees,
there branches bent, awkward point at every thing
leaves one as feathers singing, life breves in it's wind spotty
at best stiff and still.
People, mother's dad, sally loves johnny to see spot run,
have all run away to join the other army of humanity
running to spread out, and grow..
The rose garden is as if it was never touched..
picking up the pieces to be placed,
in an other wise already crowed dust bin..full of memories.
She the owner never really cared..any way..so it's gone.