It seems like all the houses are crumbling
Around me nowadays.
I can hear the whispers of wind and weather
Pass through the thick line of trees behind my home.
I lay awake late at night
And listen to this house breathe.
Its organs hum deep in its depths
And the chimney flue near my room takes in breath.
I can hear its lungs gasping against my wall
As plain as breath in a doctor's stethoscope.
My home, with glowing eyes
Of windows with my family's life behind them,
But, I have tripped over sidewalks latticing the neighborhood
And seen the sad abodes,
With rust leaking down the windowsills
Like mascara on a derelict girl.
I also have jumped through dilapidated brick foundation
Onto rotten boards splitting as water and weeds
Burst from the Earth and wear down the structure
Like the sand of time in the ever present hourglass.
The windowpanes are shattered,
Light floods through them in irregular patterns.
Clumps of henbit and nutsedge tickle my thighs
As I traipse though the ruin of a once-proud house.
Where children played on a floor, there is only bugs and weeds.
The bed he slept in is gone, replaced
By shafts of light and broken wood and rock.
I turn back to gaze on slightly stirring yellow fields,
Their rustling dry leaves jostling in anticipation
Of reclaiming the land on which these ruminating dwellings stood.