Clayton

This old chicken coop
At the very back
of my parent’s backyard
Sits with shutters forced closed
Weather worn and battered
White paint screaming
Under the blazing sun
Screen door awkwardly open
Stuttering on its hinges
The word ‘Clayton’ stamped in bold black letters
Directly in the center of the front
Above the tiny doors
The chickens once used

Decades ago,
Before the deterioration
And neglect
we’d call this place ‘home’
As we slammed pots and pans around
Pretending to be cooks inside our lil’ house
We slopped together mud pies
Grass as garnish…
Delighted in our artistic use of rocks
And pinecones
We’d build feasts
New inventive delicacies
An interesting take on pasta
A cunning use of twigs

We never did find out who ‘Clayton’ was