what the Beatles said about the doors

in what passes for Desperate Housewives
herein Fort Boring
I glide bright white across brown basement doors.

Jung’s there with me,
brush in hand
where paint nearly covers
mar and scratche.
while I wonder
if a oak tree fell
100 years ago in a forest
did any hear it cry out in pain t?
would white restore light to a dimming
where storms seeped from the
to decay and mold.
though every passageway
now sags brilliantly,
not enough sheen
exists to retrofit
misplaced hinges and pins
doors hang
exposing dusty secrets
in shadowed light.
deepening gashes.
woulda been better to let us serve out their sentences
in growing gloom.

I would worry but seems
every other home
this age
no parts really fit and must face the grinder
to force that fit
exactly to the edge
the schema lost to time
and doors look blatantly white
next to aging walnut.
a savage revenge
in the love of old houses.

‘let it be’ they said ‘let it be’

One comment

  1. Your poem sounds like a description of our house.

    Although my love for my home filters out some of the needy things.
    Well done!


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