Friday, September 27, 2013

The Book of Revelations


On rainy days he’s reminded of the weather beaten front of his wooden house
The crown over the windows cracked, twisted forward and down
Threatening to fall off on one side
At the bottom of the doorframe the paint is flaking off
The wood split and curling up
His thoughts run to what the neighbors might think
That he bought a house and could not afford to keep it up?

Soon enough the entire house would need painting
The gray siding and pink shutters faded 
Driving into the cove people might see the siding joints 
With a fresh coat of paint, he could make this go away
But he fancied himself a poet and poet's houses tend to deteriorate over time
Unless the poet was Robert Frost or maybe Wallace Stevens.

Poetry stops with words for some people
And he was one of those  
For others, beneath oddly-arranged associations
Were schema for cabinets, templates for household repair
Patterns for decorative arrangements
When people read his words was it like driving by a rundown house? 
Did they cringe at the damage done by the wind and rain?

Houses stand as testaments to those inside
In disrepair, it’s the book of Revelations
Driving through the neighborhood it’s plain
No other house has sunk so low 
A pocket of money should be thrown at the insult
And the house restored, reclaimed, to its once proud state.
           
Inside the walls lives a family with hopes and dreams
Spitting in the sinks, sinking into bubbly baths
Lounging on sitting chairs
Snug with the note paid each month
And the promise of future months taken care of 
Lowering themselves onto soft sofas
Singing sweet songs of solitude - little family hanging in there 
Little family expecting more, but settling for just this much.

Come back another day salespeople
Those of you who call on the phone
For while this era may be one of desire
It is not for material things you’re dealing 
No, the paintings are on the walls
The rooms furnished well enough
The family is busy and will take a number of rain checks
On attending to the drip of time

He knows his poetry and the house stand for something
But he’s not sure what
He’s inspired by the days and wrapped up in the nights
Downstairs, beneath the family room
He lies beside his wife and they sleep knowing
Soon enough something will literally fall off the house
Or it will be swallowed by a sink hole
After all, there are cracks in the ceiling and walls
And why does the master bedroom door only shut in summer?
           
This house is moody - subject to age and decay
A brick and mortar one would have been better
But this deal could not be thrown away for another 
Anyway, there is nothing wrong with the house
So it requires upkeep and a little money here and there
Can the same not be said for those living inside?

He knows his fear is not the decay of the house but his own
And he wonders why it’s difficult to transform a head of ideas
From a misty state to one of pouring rain
But he tells himself if he can keep the house up another line or two
He may write enough to pay for a brand new house
One that will last forever.

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