Bon Air

A buyer promises to restore the Victorian-frame house to the Historical Registry. 
A faded, hand-sized, American flag tilts on the storm window glass of a living room window. 
The concrete porch, crumbling in places, takes the place of wooden flooring, long decayed. 
Azaleas bloom a bright fuchsia, startling the occasional driver rounding the street corner.
Cedar trees dominate the yard’s shade.
Boxwood nearly block the entrance to the front door.

A dumpster out back signals cleaning for a final auction of the home’s contents.
The old pocket doors to the parlor, 
the stairs to the upstairs bathroom, with a clawed bathtub, 
and the dark heavy wooden furniture, 
hint at a past in this quiet neighborhood near the railroad track.
The train whistle breaks the quiet.
The past cannot be preserved, even when it echoes.


William has authored a collection of poetry, 'Nostalgia Resides in the Marrow,' and published in the premiere issue of the Virginia Literary Journal (Summer/Fall 2014).