Sleeping In An Empty
1740 roofline slumbers under masonite
slapped up in the fifties. Steam haunts the bright
creaks the way a boat strains at its moorings. Weve
I Am The Captain of the Pinafore on a Victorian
the last owners left, fallen asleep in the dining room
on our trundle bed hauled in after we signed all the papers.
Tonight, renovation seems lobotomy
performed by agreeable architects and contractors
after they plastic bag the brown mineral doorknobs.
We dont yet know the chimney leaks creosote behind the
how the wiring, too, could have lost us this place.
We havent seen the single, perfect beam, half-covered
and marked with the swing of a forgotten axe
that still supports the kitchen. Now, the moon awakens
newly-risen, full as a belly-ache. I get up and
counters I will order demolished in three weeks,
to watch blue air through glass ridged by time.
Its someones wedding veil, that light over the
and how fast water moves under the foot-bridge,
its strange, loud brilliance.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Christine Potter would be
pleased to hear from you.