Run-down

In a half way house
you stop, over by the gravel, beneath the long shudder
where the big old trees bow down, the bare, untamed grounds,
this halfway house, where the awning hang low,
as though a drunk on a lounge,
the tinted, tainted glass, thick and dusty with grime
where a pale painted butterfly is found,
this half way house, run down,
with walls thoroughly broken, and stairs agap
like a child’s milk teeth,
smiles unknowingly, unseeing,
this half way house, on an abandoned clearing
next to an abandoned brewery,
old remnants of life found,
of life bound.
This half way house, once with memories
of a new surround.

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