Changing Numbers

Each morning he changed the numbers on his house.

He had done it for years.
Somehow, he imagined.
it made him safe, invisible,
a never ending story
where history was fluid,
depending on the audience,
or the latest fear,

a chameleon,
slightly, harmlessly
mad,
meticulously lining the cast iron numbers,
in a perfect row,
an agent of change

leaving him not safe,
but perpetually lost.

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The picture is not one of mine, it’s a Wikipedia commons image, used because I did not have one that suited the poem.

Tom