adventures in dysthymia

Friday, January 04, 2013

Crooked House, a poem

Crooked House

The humped beams beneath the floor
throw the kitchen off balance. I walk
drunkenly. There is dirt
on the shelves and drawers full of cold.

Time clings to the walls; it is
all echoes and dim mirrors here.
Nothing is new. The windows whisper
into the caverns of the night.

I would settle like these foundations,
change as slowly as the fields,
filled with seasons of growth and sleep.
I’d bank the embers of my dreams.

The roof is bowed by long conversations
with the insistent rain. Will I
stay, they wonder now, a crooked
man, come home to a crooked house?

There is a porch, with room to drowse,
room to remember and to forget,
and each post is a bit askew.
Tomorrow can come by and sit.

We’ve things to talk about, and sky
to look at. I have watched the crows fly
and they take a crooked path
from here to somewhere over there.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

The 'crooked house' is where I live, here on Peanut Road. Yes, the floors are a tad uneven. Some of this grew from memories of the first times I looked at the place a few years back and thought of buying it and moving here.

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