There is a place
under the stairwell
where no one can go,
there is only access
in the inches between where
run meets next rise.
And there is a light in there
•
"You are a fine boy."
"Do you raise and fly
a flag? You do!" How
wonderful to tend
a pennant.
•
You are the Victorian house, besieged
by new growth building on both sides.
Bay window looking into a brick wall
and the wall looking back into it.
Passersby saying "What a pity that
such a building be encroached like that."
or "The sunlight can't even reach
the bay window to light the living room up."
•
The right triangular prism
of concrete block painted white,
so the light can blue-white
or pinky-orange the place up.
I am in it. There are no doors
or windows. Rock salt and
water trickle down from
the stairs above. It is cold.
Pride is not an issue, but
affection turned to problem is.
The unmade bed is. The unmaking
it is. The flag and inquiries about it
•
"This, this animoisity
is finely brewed," however
revenge is best served.
