This Old House

This old house creaks
in the wind, aging rafters sway,
and a storm forces the wood
to turn out of a fear of tornadoes.
Twice struck by lightning ,
twice rebuilt, its dry wood crumbles,
falls downward to earth,
mixing with mortar that has drifted
to the base of the foundation.

Local children pick
at the foundation itself,
carrying off pieces
for building small castles
or for use as missiles
in their latest wars.
I do not stop them for fear
one may be another Frank Lloyd Wright ...
for fear the wrong side may win.

Or I do not stop them because
in the end termite and rat
will move in, colonize
in another example
of Manifest Destiny.
By that time I will have quite crumbled myself,
flesh gone, soul fled, bones unearthed by a nosey dog;
the spider will weave its silk from pelvis to vertebrae,
the worm keep house, the wind and rain bleach my skull
to a pale white.

© Paul Wittenberger 5/31/2018