Fixer-upper

In her body-house, beats the lone chair that is her heart,
upholstery in shreds, stuffing exposed. Attic-mind
piled with detritus stacked askew in shadowy corners,
splintered edges that jut and catch. Rubble-strewn floor.

Fine dust of fallen plaster coats lips and tongue,
chokes lungs, irritates eyes that blink and burn.
Nowhere safe to tread, each step a flinch
for tender soles.

A little maintenance would have gone a long way.
Sweep, sort, fix, toss.
Maybe a slipcover for her heart. Or at least a rule
about not jumping on the furniture.

Now it looks like a bomb has gone off.
There’s been no big explosion, no sirens,
no flashing lights. Slow neglect over time
can have the same effect.

But do you see? The bones are still strong.
Sturdy wooden beams vault skyward.
Sunlight streams in through window-eyes.
Illuminate the mess. Invite repair.