When I See This House, I Can't Help Thinking 

The house stands empty,

the very last edifice on a dead-end street.

Been like that the past two years.

In fact, it’s never been completed.

It looks pathetic.

Especially at night.

Not a light to be seen.

Some windows with wooden slats for glass.

The roof finished just enough

for pigeons to nest in the eaves.

I have a hard time

with unrealised potential.

Not just people.

But even a dwelling

with a front door

but no number,

a paint job half-undercoat, half blue.

It’s not drugs, not alcohol,

not even laziness

like it is with some I know.

Maybe the builders ran out of money.

Or the buyer reneged.

Or the town just doesn’t need

another home

for folks to live in.

Not then. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

So the house could well never be

the house that was intended.

It will begin to deteriorate.

Walls falls down.

Ceilings collapse.

The building will just

disassemble itself,

until there’s nothing left

to remember.

That’s just what Jerry did.

Down at the end of his dead-end street.

An Education

Math is rules

not opinions

so there’s no point

engaging my imagination

when the lecturer speaks

and the board fills with chalk equations.

So the girl in front of me

it must be,

her bare shoulders the class,

her skin, the details

be it white-striped,

an apple red,

or lightly tanned

as education rolls toward summer.

With math,

there is only ever one answer.

Know it and I’m set for life.

But a young woman

offers different responses

to the same question.

Her formulas don’t rust in place.

They shift around.

They mature.

Some day, I will work up

the courage to speak to her,

to ask her name.

I bet my life

it will not be Euclid.

A Definition

Love has infinite resources

and a skin of fine glass

and, though sometimes courteous and respectful,

when compared to the likes of rage,

it is no less passionate,

no less cutting to the bone.

For all of its gentleness

love is fierce.

It can flare at the surface

as an over-pumped heart,

or wreak chaos within

like the wings of panicked birds.

It's mostly silent

but, when it does speak,

it's invariably out of turn.

Love can be closed up,

pressed in on itself

and yet, at the right moment,

it opens like hands,

even the roughest, most scarred,

soft and delicate as snow.

Love can be swallowed right

off the fire

or uncovered, after digging deep.

It's what curtains seek in stillness.

It's a warm day, sky blue-gray,

trees and wildflowers majestic,

sun-lit, flecked with rain.

Love constantly mutates

from dark to bright colors.

It can accept death but,

if pressed, would choose life

with a lover.