i found myself selling a house

I found myself selling a house

fiction
edward w pritchard

I found myself selling a house,
a house that Generals of invading armies never commandeered for strategic headquarters
or troops never pitched tents in the yard awaiting upcoming bloody battles
a house where no one ever awoke early Sunday morning to read the newspaper and drink fine teas with a friendly lady in a lacy red peignoir 
a house that no one ever entered without ringing the doorbell while waiting and waiting
it's a house that everyone secretly criticizes because it needs an update and makeover to be marketable,
a house but not a home
selling a house is difficult where no one wants to live in  modern times
a house where no one orders pizza on line and turns the occasion into a memorable party
a house where no pictures are texted to friends and followers of daily curiosities
because the house I occupy needs extensive expensive dental work
has a broken malfunctioning heart, a disappearing will
and lacks a sunny upbeat attitude
I found myself selling a house
a house in need of an update and overhaul, to be marketable in the world of an approaching future
each house stands silently alone, watching weeds of memories of vanished pasts
blot out the noise of busy carpenters and home builders making obsolete yesterdays
abodes, to make way for smiling future
for someone else.