Empty Property


The front door was stiff
Requiring a kick to open
The sort of kick I imagine
Policemen or bailiffs deliver
When enforcing entry.

As is normal when houses
Have been vacant
For some time
The smell of decay
Hung everywhere.

With pen, paper and clipboard
I made cursory notes
More to prove I had inspected
Than to record anything
That might be worthwhile.

A glance at every
Decaying room was enough
To satisfy me
That this was really
A bit of a dump.

Turning to exit
The door resisted
Refusing to budge
As if showing contempt
For my disrespect.

In panic I forced myself
Out the back way
Into an overgrown garden
Rusted hinges
Groaning in protest.

Not looking back
I stepped over a garden wall
Into a back alley
Looking this way and that
Blushing with embarrassment.

Behind me the empty house
Sneered in its loneliness
As I limped back to the car
My throat dry
Every muscle aching.


Photo by JMD Pix

David Subacchi

David Subacchi

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and is well published internationally especially in the USA and the UK. His poetry collections First Cut (2012) and Hiding in Shadows (2014) are with Cestrian Press. You can find out more about David and his work at http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
David Subacchi

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