Dirty Walls

Come. Stay a while.
Hang your coat on the iron hooks
my grandfather made a generation ago.

Pardon the walls.
It has been so long since I painted
and the dirt of age and air,

the myriad touches of children
and old men mar what I am sure
once was white.

Perhaps I should be more concerned
at perfection. A coat of paint after all, is easy,
but there is something about the texture of age

that sings to my heart in a way perfection never will,

About this poem

My house is old. Some rooms I have redone. Others I have not. It’s a lot like me that way. But that is part of what I like about an old house. There are stories in every mark and scar.

It’s a lot like me that way.

Tom