Friday, December 12, 2008


This old house rumbles under your thunderous posture.

Crossbeams and plateware and load bearing studs all shudder to know:
You are about!

Some silly something invites your vibrations...
To the sun room.
A stray wisp of worry scandalizes Mr. Rickter
In the kitchen.

Lurching upon the hardwood floors
In your hardwood feet
Which you frequently drag
Through invisible snow
("Scuff! Scuff!" go the slippers)
I feel as though
My very bones
Were rattling under your rude lumbering.

The wood in the walls begins to bow with your spine
I know that the halls are showing the signs
Of early onset scoliosis.

Our hunchbacked address is a misaligned mess
Of chiropractic lore.
It won't be a wonder if after the thunder
The doors don't close all the way anymore.