Houses.

The houses are all innocence,
Little red brick boxes
Packed together like cases on a shelf,
Lined up spic and span in a nice neat row
Ready to receive the latest batch of people;
Honeycombs upright on a concrete pathway
Not yet oozing honey.

It is the people who stuff the houses up with character,
Gives them their interest,
Gives them their souls,
Gives them their grace and favour,
Life stories that settle the bills.
In that house over there for instance,
A man resides with his two fat wives
And a battleground of children.
And that neat house down the street
Contains a secret
That is not so sweet,
A mass murderer once filled its drains with corpses
While his girl friend made the tea,
She once made a cup for me.
And over the road, adorned in her fur trimmed hats,
The lady who quarantines cats
Is gradually stinking out the street.

The houses are all innocence indeed,
Its what we do with them that makes the difference,
How we make or break them,
Ship or shape them,
Let them tumble into ruins or keep them up to date.
My house is a case in point,
Something to talk about,
There is a crack across the window pane and it needs a spot of paint,
But who cares really, who really really cares?
A spot of paint can wait.
I am busy writing poems when I should be tending to such matters,
A poem is always urgent
Like the birthing of a baby or the baking of a cake,
A spot of paint can wait.
What you see on the outside is of no consequence at all,
Except to the nosey neighbours.
What is taking place inside is the true momentous story.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 26th. - 27th. 2015.
For Anne, who taught me how to trust my writing.