my role has
always been
to fix
broken stairs
to oil the
rusty hinges of
the door &
wipe those
misty
glass windows
of their
haze
to plant the
runners
along the stony
pavements
of the house
i like it when
it is green
and covered
as things appear
cool
and vibrant against
the walls
beneath the sun
i replace old
lamps
i like it when
the room is
bright with
light
at night
i like it when
everyone of you
in this house
is comfortable with
warm soup on the
table
when the cold nights
of November
begins to
shiver
when you look
for a candle
and a lighter
i always have
them with
me
what i think is
hurting is that
i am not fixed
myself
i am a broken rail
a malfunctioning lamp
a dark room
a cold soup a
rusty hinge
a missing stair
and yet
no one
no one really
cares.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem