Ivy

I spread my limbs,

my twisted Ivy stretching up,

consuming cracking bricks.

I watch the world pass as I wait on the bare bones of a breaking home,

turn my face up to the sky while people come and go.

I wonder.

Is it hollow or holy heraldings that fill these halls?

And does a plump apple mouthed swine garnish candlelit cloth?

I hear their laughter is hardy

I smell their bellies are full

No room to fulfill any hunger other than their own

Feast.

Feast.

Feast.

One for the father,

one for the son,

and one for the holy ghost of a happy home.

I am aging…

My vines too thin to cling to this brick.

The yard is too quiet, no child’s play.

We are aging…

On a block fit for kings this grandiose plot is tainted,

suspended in what lies beyond vanity and plenty.

But from the road it is silent,

too gift wrapped in ivy to be heard.