That is the shed where he kept his compressor;

here is my dining room with dark antique dresser.

This is the yard where we planted the birch tree

and there is the bench where we sat, you and me.

Where is the man who replastered the wall?

Who is the old woman who returns when you call?

Why does the house seem so quiet and lifeless,

and how can a thing made of bricks feel sightless?