An Old Home

I sit patiently
as you stare.
You observe me,
looking for my imperfections.

I do not want you.
You who searches.
Every crack and dusty corner,
every imperfection, noted
by your scavengers eyes.

You who will try to fix
my creaking stairs,
my scratches and bruises.
You who cannot see me.

I am waiting.
Waiting for that one.
The person who will come into me,
but will not look, will see.

This person will see how every crack
every scratch and dusty corner
shows my character.
And this person will love me.

He will see how nurturing I was.
Children were born in me,
kittens played, and I did not hurt
for their scratchings.

I was home to elderly women
who's grandchildren ran with
sticky fingers across my walls.
And I loved them.

She will see me as I am.
The home to many people,
old and young,
And how I loved them.

How young children thundered
down my steps,
how my stairs now creak
as testament to my age.

But I did not hate them
for taking my well furnished newness
and making me this,
an old home.

Cobwebs dot my corners,
and my floors have gathered dust.
I am young no more,
my walls are cracked and sore.

The newlyweds come by
and scorn my every side,
for my age.
So I will wait.

Someday a person will come
who will see my beauty,
who will appreciate my age
and I will welcome this person.