The wood is cracked,
The paint chipped,
The gutters sprouting weeds.
Leaks and watermarks make up the walls,
Warped windowsills no one dares to heed.
Down the stairs cement hits your feet
And musk meets your face.
Up past the paintings
Sunlight bathes the mess over which we pace.
Out back the rocks stand taller
Than the uncut grass.
In front the groundhog eats
The purple petunias in mass.
On a good day you can see the mountains,
Blue and crystal clear.
On a bad one
No one draws close to each other out of fear.
The mountains are indifferent,
As we attempt to be.
And for the most part we succeed,
All except for me.
I could go on to follow
One of these two paths:
To run away as fast I can,
Or stay and face my wrath.
I can say,
With no doubts left to fear (ha!),
The glass will block
I might have gotten from the deer.