I walk through the house with sunglasses on,
Looking at all the things we used to love.
Through the window, I see the rolling lawn
And the two old chairs that have gone to rust.
The ornamental wall lamps with glass shades,
The mantel, the couch with its funny lumps,
The hassock you covered with dark green suede,
The kitchen table where we ate our lunch,
I am still haunted by this house we loved;
There are memories here I will never leave;
Even with dark glasses I see too much;
Perhaps part of me will always grieve.
And forever on those two rusty chairs
Two sad, ghostly figures will sit and stare.
Jack Clubb has had short stories published in publications such as Black Creek Review, Coffee-Ground Breakfast, The Magic of Words, Northern Stars, Opinion Magazine, Rockford Review, Sunrise, The Taylor Trust, and Voices From The Valley. He has also had several hundred poems published in the United States, the United Kingdom, and India. Jack is grateful every time an editor gives one of his poems an opportunity to sing or gives him the opportunity to tell a story as he writes feverishly from his century-old house at the foot of the Silver Lake Hills in Los Angeles.