Safe From the Weather

Just down the street the barn still stands,
chipped clapboard, broken windows and all.

The bones are good. The lines still straight.
Inside, you hear the cows rustling.

You hear a rooster, crowing long past dawn.
You slow down as you walk past,

taking in the walls, devoid of paint.
Not even a fleck remains
of whatever color it might have been.

You can remember being so raw.
so stripped of color.
A working ruin.

Perfectly functional,
with leaks. With holes.
Broken places.

Inside the barn, you hear chickens fluttering.
They know no difference
Between near ruin and restored.
They only know they are safe from the weather.

About this poem.

A lot of older music in my favorite diner this morning. It triggered a darkish time in my life, and how functional I was despite the inner collapse. How few noticed. Which is good. I hated appearing to be the wreck I sometimes was.

The barn is just at the edge of town. When I took the picture, it was as you see it. It has since been repaired and painted, a forest green stain. I smile when I drive by it. I love restored things.

Tom