I told you, didn’t I? I told you that
the walls were cracked and warped,
crumbling and full of rising damp and
dry rot, unfit for habitation.
But you went right ahead and moved in anyway.
First, you knocked though a few walls,
to let in some light, you said.
You seemed unconcerned that the sunshine simply
showed up the dirt; dust bunnies waltzing slowly.
Most people would build an addition,
but you reduced to rubble all the
vain architectural accretions and redundancies;
you toppled chimneys, crenellations, took out
carpets, curtains, photographs, furniture,
turned the whole place inside out, so that
a bare footprint remained behind a false front door
whilst out in the yard, a pile of rubbish threatened
to outgrow the oak trees.
You took an armchair and set it in the centre of
the cold cement foundation floor,
rubbed your hands and looked around
with something approaching glee.
“Now, where shall we begin?” you asked the clear, blue sky.
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