Poem: Poorly Suited

The house lo longer stands.
I took the picture a pair of years ago.

Long abandoned then, I wondered how long
before that abandonment took it’s final toll,
how long before it’s charm would rot away
and fall, board by board, to the earth.

I need not have wondered.
Someone made the decision.
bulldozers and tow lines did the work
of decades in a day.

How long had it been left?
Long enough for glass to break
and paint to peel, but not so long
that the bones bent.

In the picture, the last memory,
each line is still crisp. The roofline straight.
You could imagine yourself on the porch,
dining in light.

But your life has had other restorations,
yourself not the least of them,
and you have learned enough in your sixty two years
to know you are poorly suited for saving.

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