Each step carries its own creak,
you can never sneak or grovel
in a hovel. Picture askew
with draperies, maybe pictures
askew too. A void of space
black holes refuse to enter.
Wind blown whistles through window gaps,
tapping, branches reaching, backhanded slaps
against the roof, proof of her verity.
It is a rarity to be noticed for right reasons.
At the center of the block between
houses that should be knocked down.
Just a space, facing west;
not fitting in with the rest.
A gold tooth in a decrepit smile
and such. It may not be much,
but it is home.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014