If this house were a woman,
She’d be told,
She looks good for her age,
Not really old.
Not really old.
Heading into her second century,
She’s got a few wrinkles,
A few joints that creak.
She suffers from incontinence,
Under the kitchen sink.
The plaster carries scars,
From a ladder of years,
Evidence of movement and growth,
The legacy of child-sized mountaineers.
She’s got good bones,
And a strong foundation.
But neglect and patchwork fixes,
Detract from her reputation.
If this house were a woman,
She’d fetch few winning offers,
For nothing depreciates more than a woman,
When time's an unwelcome stalker.
Interesting. Keep up your good blogging.
ReplyDeleteYou're a poet and I didn't know it! Nice.
ReplyDeleteWay to extend your metaphor, Lois Ann!
ReplyDeleteI love the metaphor and appreciate it so much because I can relate to it. My old house lost its fight against time and is awaiting final destruction. I hate to bring her down but time didn't treat her well and her bones are rotten. Sadly no plastic surgery can ever bring her back. Not for lack of trying though. If my old house were a woman, she'd be lying on her deathbed, still filled with memories and momentous of laughter, life and love.
ReplyDeleteThank you Lois. I love your writing because it evokes so much emotion and thought.