, April 22, 2024

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The Home Alone is in Pain

  •   1 min read
The Home Alone is in Pain
by Vincent R. Pozon

It creaks open with a humph
and a downturned lip,
the greeting of a house
left uninhabited,

like a gumamela past its bloom,
the house sulks and shrinks,
it pulls a face more felt than seen,
and disassembles,

the hardest of hardwoods darken
to a pout; tegula roof tiles bought
with the promise of 'for life'
slide off and fall,

the sulk is subdued when you are there,
though you might hear a grumble
in the pipes, a painting decides to leap
from its tethers,

while dogs are articulate
with woof, whimper and friskiness,
the house can only cause a creak,
can only moan,

windows slam, fluorescent lamps tilt,
but not in pique, for the house only seeks
to harm itself as the unvisited
often do.

It was audience and venue for
mirth and many, and now,
unkempt, it has the brittleness
of the formerly loved,

ay, we break the bodies of those we love and leave.

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