’twas upon crooked
hill

that our house
leaned

as though to watch
us leave

for flusher
scenery,

as cracks turn
break

and paint becomes
flakes

may we never
glance
back

at its sorry
old state.

this place is for
holidays
only
,

we live in a room far
more dark and
empty

where walls hold
generations

of intentions confined
to frame
,

portraits snapped at
different
times

all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,

but we’re on
holiday.

i hear rubber gripping
fresh rainfall

and watch clouds circle
like seagulls

while neighbors vs. neighbors
rekindle each
other
..

i smell stale incense
as the hours
trip on
by.

pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,

thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,

anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires
..

shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.