The shades were pulled down
In the two front windows, casting
 
Deep-yellow light into dreary rooms
Of the small wooden house
On San Benito and ā€œNā€ Streets.
 
A room, a single bed, and mattress,
The dresser drawers drawn        
 
Open and left empty,
Old newspaper lined the bottoms.
 
A leather-covered Armenian Bible 
Left open on the nightstand,
 
No pictures on the wall
Of a lost uncle wearing a red fez
Or personal effects on the dresser;
 
A hair-brush, Masonic ring,
Or a cracked tea-cup, or souvenirs.
 
Thick sheets of wallpaper peeled
From the vacant, barren living-room.
 
The wooden-floor groaned
Under cover of worn linoleum.
 
One wooden chair at a table,
A folded newspaper, fork
And spoon with plated half-shells,
 
Initials HF on the handles.
From the Hotel Fresno,

Washed repeatedly every day,

Now laying after the last use
Under a patina of Fresno dust
 
Collected slowly over time
On the table, chair and floor.
 
The backdoor opened to a porch,
A yard and garden from two-years-ago.
 
Two heavy wooden-doors open out
To darkness under the house:
 
A grinding-wheel,
 
A self-propelled stone-wheel
For sharpening knives, pruning-shears,
Scissors and other sharp-edges,
 
Means to earn a meager income
For a man worn to knife-filings,
 
Deserted and left behind
In a hurry to leave this place.
 
A house waiting to be moved,     
 
To be raised by jacks
Over beams and wheels.
 
And hauled by a truck somewhere,
Some fog-obscured elsewhere.
 
Small hope in resurrection
For the broken-down house
 
Where the off-ramp of a six-lane
Interstate freeway will be.