Copyright R.D. Ellison 2004

Hear me out and hear me well, my boy,
'Cause we're not to hear another peep
About your Travis Burgoyne's rec room,
Or his electronics and bean bags six feet deep.
So he doesn't know flood marks and musk,
Cobwebs, floors of stone, throat-clogging dust,
Low doorways, rusty pull-chains, mounded junk,
Nor how to dodge overhead herbs, as you must.
You know, and stand, on ground where
To hired men our grandpa lied;
You know, and pass, dim corners where
She-greats have sat down and have cried.
Travis Burgoyne doesn't have to deal with
Steps uneven, narrowed, decayed almost.
His has ceiling fans, couches, carpets plush -

But it doesn't have ghosts.