We fixed you,
made you modern.
What would the windows do
when you have aluminum?
And lines, old lines, tan split by old,
above-ground lines, split by a
telephone pole, hand-carved sitting
by the door that would not allow you in
unless you showed your whole face
in the tiny box.
Oh but we opened a nice front
on the side and more aluminum
and now there are sadly-ripped papers
glued and taped to that window,
that door and the painting
on the window
look so stale, as if to be dead.
We gave you plenty of spots
but you sit there with
empty slices of bored, and
sleepy gravel,
waiting for action,
waiting for
the brightness of the energy
we need. And then,
and then,
and then,
would you watch that concrete
on the front?
Did we fix you, old man, or what?
No more curves or gaps or carvings.
We gave you 50s slab,
and if you don’t like it,
bang your head against that slithery, slimy wall.
until you bleed,
and the aluminum
laughs at you again and again.
.
.
stillfugue 