Work in Progress

In the back of the house is a door you never open
for company. It is
unfinished,
raw,
complete with cracks in the plaster,
lights that flicker
and layers of bad paint.
Spare lumber lines the walls and
tools and nails litter the floor.

There is nothing pretty here.
A work in progress, no more,
and only those few you trust the most,
the ones that see with more than their eyes
are allowed in.

About this poem

About works in progress, be they rooms or lives.

The picture was taken at Skeine Manor in Whitehall, NY.

Tom