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