On a Lost Country Road

my quiet place

The soot rubbed raw against the brick,

The few that stand tall with not a chip,

And I, above all who cannot sit,

See the beautiful and sad fire of the house.

But who else feels the history

At the edge of my heels and chasing me?

Like the black and white reels of past expectancy,

Dressed in the suited and black attire of the house.

And the burns and char of the story telling

Isn't at all hard to hear the yelling

To a girl, from afar, who ends up selling

Herself to the worn bricks and desires of the house.