I call it 'Houseblindness'

Guarding the house is a dark green grass
clambering about, threatening to swallow
the wrought iron gate; thinking it trellis,

there is a mottling on the bedroom wall,
designed by the moisture in the air,
flourishing but only if I look away,

the crack on the red wall of the dining room
is longer or it seems to be longer
when lit by the amber afternoon sun,

At some point in our aging, failures fade,
each one, from sight and from care.
soon enough, and kindly, they disappear.

The knees upon which we transport
hundreds of pounds and the weight of woes
will complain about gravity,

they will buckle, startling when first felt,
the dependable suddenly not there,
a body part forgetting, failing duty,

later we will regard it as something pesky,
a bother that should be shaken off,
wrung out, legs stretched back to normal.

We are blind to the rankling of our bodies
until the landmarks, the failing organs
and the cancers, tiptoe into our rooms.

The illnesses peep from doorways,
like several ‘killroy was here’ drawings,
decay generously allowing us time,

waiting for us to sit for coffee
some afternoon, hopefully to look about,
notice the crack stretching like a yawn,

the mottling turning into a map,
the weeds, now fleshy and prickly,
freezing the hinges of the wrought iron gate.