A House Is Not A Home
They adorn these walls as ugly ornaments:
Invisible trails of vermin
Painted with the bile of bitterness
for all to see.
The roof is a dome of cobwebs
Spun with entangled filial threads
that trap the sun’s warmth
Plunging the enclave in perpetual cold.
Its fragile foundation,
quaked by a split along maternal lines
that displaced brethren into separate camps,
still records intrigues and suspicions as after-shocks.
The patriarch wears a mask of anger
to scare off domestic intruders
and hide the wrinkles of frustrations
Etched so ...
Sots Of Sorts
filing out of night shelters
converge at sheds all over town
to imbibe morning elixirs,
night tales exchanged with raucous laughter.
Now inured to shame,
amble along to collect day’s takings.