Poetry time

Here's a poem that springs out of my aloneness after my children had moved away.

Nothing lasts

The big empty house is full
Of little ghosts that left penciled
Height marks on the kitchen door frame
And hand prints on the walls.

In the upstairs bathroom a small specter
Stands in front of the sink, on tiptoe,
Trying out nail polish. The small mouth is pursed
The eyes intent, the little hands unsteady,
Dropping a small comment on the countertop.
There it stays, hard and pink.

I scrub around it when I clean, being careful
Not to touch it, not to disturb such a wonderful
Artifact of a previous existence,
But time is wearing it away.
Soon it will be gone.