That House

Every neighborhood seems to have one,
That house where the parents aren't as diligent,
Where the kids gather, and hang out.
Nothing much is going on there.
The house like that I remember was up the street,
Maybe a quarter mile, and ran a perpetual yard sale.
Which really seemed to be cover for the overgrown yard,
The tables of stuff out in all weather.
Rained on, sun faded, nothing really good.
Everyone seemed to know this, few customers stopped.
For a while we hung out there.
We, my sister and brother and me,
They were older teenagers, concerned with things like
Smoking and drinking, and contact highs.
There were teenagers in that house,
All the cigarettes you could smoke, and the father.
He was a jolly man, sitting in a recliner,
Letting all this unfold around him.
We all smoked cigarettes, some of us drank,
And in the back room, there was a permanent
Haze of smoke, from pot and cigarettes.
I suppose it was a different time,
But I still think, there is probably a house
In every neighborhood.
Where the parents aren't as diligent,
Where the kids gather and hang out.
Nothing much is going on there,
In That House.