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.