My ancient home is
High above the bay
In Fall, I open up
All the windows
Air out the rooms from the
Stale heat of Summer
But none of the doors in my
Apartment latch
And with the windows open
It becomes a wind tunnel
And the wind plays percussion,
And the neighbours complain
But who am I?
And who are they,
To try to dictate when the
Bay wind, can play?
It starts as soft panic, that
Sends me back
To the sweetness of sleep.
When finally, I wake
It's at the insistence
Of my twitching nerves.
The toilet calls
Then coffee, and I'll stand,
Once again at my
Kitchen window, as the
Electric kettle, lit blue,
Bubbles
I'll assess the world,
Note the state of the bay,
And whether the pigeons are around today
Then, coffee made,
I'll adjourn to my chair; maybe
Flip through my phone
Or write a small poem
Anything to ignore the
Insurmountable mess that's
Taken over every
Inch of my home–—
"Just, don't look up- keep
your
Eyes on your phone, or
Something else,
Something
manageable, maybe
Sew another hat
Or write another poem"
While meanwhile, the piles of
Detritus grow
And so does the mould that's destroying my home
And wreaking this hell on my body.
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