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
published in Helicon '97