Grime isn’t dirt but something insidious
that elbow grease can’t touch,
something that seeps into the walls
of an old house.
It wears time like a coat
once fashionable that has seen
better days. Serviceable–
that’s the best you can say for it.
Old houses smell lived in,
well loved, but well worn.
No air freshener can dull their odor
that has sunk into the woodwork.
Like calendars, they bear the marks
of eras past, colors once the craze
of home magazines, collections of décor
that reveal disputes over taste.
Old houses hold people passing through,
young couples on their way
to someplace else, old people
on their way to nowhere.
