06.17
I use to live in seventy-two: it’s bricked up now though
in the way of anonymity that these terraces
seem to succumb to; when a house becomes a home, it’s cause
to celebrate with the tradition of bringing forth warmth
to the smiling new residents resplendent in their snug,
regardless of responsibility, mortgages, risk;
but when a home becomes a house, there’s no ceremony,
simply handymen busy with their mortar and chipboard
plugging those telling holes of dead doors and wilted windows.
There is nothing left to hold the legend of families
once inhabiting now redundant shells, void of value,
just the neglect that weeds enjoy and graffiti’d thresholds
bearing down on abandoned streets, only occupied by
the stray dogs that know of no place to rest from the downfall.
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