Follow a jagged roofline down
 

cinder blocks to the apothecary- 
Tin sheets under the windows
     metal 
attenae jutting 
 into the sky, 
  rain gutters rusting, 
and a chair set on a porch 
with brown entwisted springs; bike 
           spokes on a wheel 
    like broken bones 
 and rotting gums,
the shutters are boarded for good,
with thick yellowing medical bills,
unpaid.  hanging prune smell
       in the kitchen,
 the olive green paint peels
and wears away.  we're 
all white pale photographs of winter, 
       faces bleach-faded.    
narrowing pencil end focus on life
to a block, a room,
    an elm tree 
        rotting in the corner, 
a pair of breasts 
	             sagging in a bed.

by josh buermann © 1996