(no subject)
My bed is pressed up against the far wall,
feet staring at bookshelves,
window nestled at the end.
I slide the curtain to the right,
half-lift the blinds
and coax the window open.
The weather is beautiful,
but the barrage of sound
is overwhelming.
I look out onto green lawn,
my eyes following the expense
from my new building
to last year's home,
but trip on the way
and fall into a great muddy ditch
lined in orange plastic fencing.
Construction.
The things I knew have been
torn out
removed.
Which is fine,
because it won't last long,
I think.
Except maybe the whole year.
And also after that.
All the improving which seems
it will benefit too late.
I am frustrated.
I don't want the sound,
the hazard,
the inconvenience,
the dust, the
sight of plundered earth.
This is the part
where I make some simile
between the construction and me, how I am under construction,
here.
How the pain and the cacophony and the ugliness
are all building something.
Only it,
too,
might be too late.
feet staring at bookshelves,
window nestled at the end.
I slide the curtain to the right,
half-lift the blinds
and coax the window open.
The weather is beautiful,
but the barrage of sound
is overwhelming.
I look out onto green lawn,
my eyes following the expense
from my new building
to last year's home,
but trip on the way
and fall into a great muddy ditch
lined in orange plastic fencing.
Construction.
The things I knew have been
torn out
removed.
Which is fine,
because it won't last long,
I think.
Except maybe the whole year.
And also after that.
All the improving which seems
it will benefit too late.
I am frustrated.
I don't want the sound,
the hazard,
the inconvenience,
the dust, the
sight of plundered earth.
This is the part
where I make some simile
between the construction and me, how I am under construction,
here.
How the pain and the cacophony and the ugliness
are all building something.
Only it,
too,
might be too late.