This old house.

[object_sleep]

This old house
this bag of bones
I carry with me

with the leaking bathtub
and the missing ceiling
the cracks in the plaster
and the hand holes
we put there
ourselves.

Dog chewed door frames
and mismatched paint
The broken floorboard
and the never ending mice.

These shoulders are heavy
These brickless walls
brick by brick by brick
another moment sealed away
another wasted opportunity

that is why I stay

The endless dream of happiness
if only someday
a momentary reprieve when one thing
ceases collapsing into another
where if for once
these walls would stay standing
their edges remaining perfectly aligned
with the floor joists
where the seeping wall leaving sick black mold
would stop its tear flow long enough
to let the plywood dry out
long enough for the end of one room to be done
before beginning the journey of another.

My tools are ill equipped
My knowledge infantile
My glass half empty

And all these moments when I'd rather be lifted
than deal with the reality of being house poor
are wasting the minutes away
no wiser, no surer, no more ready to begin.

The walls haunted with mounting displeasure
If they could talk, they would howl.