Poetry
A house/a home/a line in the sand
A house/a home/a line in the sand
There is a tornado in my fridge.
and bats in the rafters.
There are miners under the stairs,
and fireflies dying in glass bulbs.
My house is alive, tonight.
A-hum with the sound of activity.
Alive with music, timed for homebodies.
But the drums are not mine,
they beat from within clean water pipes,
and downturned light switches.
They bellow the melody of duty,
and of nothing else to be done.
No one has said anything
about the foxes in the cupboard,
or the rats on the ironing board.
They’re skyping their bosses
…on zoom.
and trying to ignore
the noises from under the sink
The sound of a falling foundation
of a system of being,
brought to pasture.
It is that age-old-cry of I
told you so.
Of how many more lives?
Of must I save you,
even as you tread on my hands?
It is the sound of famine in her fridge,
and an old man hung from isolated rafters
and amazon workers buried under trillion-dollar stairs.
the melody of those without fireflies
to save them from this night,
yet they haul for us the promise of dawn
on their unclad backs.
