Monday, March 2, 2015


I am a house held together with cello-tape. 

Glass panes tacked together 
with Blutac and bubblegum, 
Fused, naked light-bulbs laden with forgotten sparkle. 

I am the driveway of hairline, moss-laden cracks
 and drainpipes that believe they are not clogged. 

I am the hinges, peppered with rust, singing off-key. 

I am the rain, racing down the shingles; 
The moss, getting clingy in old age. 

I am the doorknob that has lost its turn, 
the cellar where insomnia hits the bottle 
and fans that trade stories about failed suicide attempts. 

I am the carpet, once red, threadbare, laid out for stilettos.

No comments: