The Playhouse

The door stands open on a plastic room
crowded with brown and brittle leaves
there is no echo of happy voices
the children are gone

The yellow slide curls down to the empty air
the swings hang limp
there is no dancing in the wooden tower
no toys in the sand

There are no rosy cheeks,
no silken hair, no tiny sneakers
No one is laughing
in this little empty house.



Grandma C.