An abandoned grey building actively
encased along with the colorless sky

and both lined with the gutters flat
blue hung from old rust, felt of red rain,

just as tenants housed years ago spoke
their whispers in the course tracking

of the framework, with the wind
in the trees, occasional like what

arose maybe once out from a piano
in a corner by a window, in summer

without an ending while ever in site,
the end when everything is happening

after a plant is left by someone
on the first step of the broken landing

against the distrait of the bent rail,
possibly with a small dyed blossom

during the after of another season
while a stray tabby cat eats from life

after being under the back deck
for so long too and Christopher--

he holds one of the kittens and now
has to live elsewhere, in a woods

that can’t be seen and beyond
the city with chains on its doors,

where the wash hangs on the line
and waves outward to the horizon.


Annotated Margins said...

“… blue hung from old rust, felt of red rain...” and the last stanza—great imagery to maintain the tone of the poem.

just kate said...

in a very unpoetic word, given context and cliche, NICE. This was such a rich world to wake up and drink coffee within.