By Les Wicks
the pipes are blocked
leaves are falling
roots get into everything
our windows wear epaulettes of dust
those flowers never stop their complaints
50-year-old roof tiles like teeth never seem fixed
phone lines are so ancient
that all communication travels with a walking frame
decline is everywhere
one could walk away
I am sometimes in a tear-down build-anew
state of grace despair disrepair
until your smile breaks the architects
then everything is just right
like five melodies caked in glory
the love I can give the love I take
as a hungry man but one who knows his manners
there is a door
always the bloody doors
their promises & threats
but I am here
in my late years
with you
Les Wicks
