Each day my house is slightly more
decaying than the day before.
The rot around the doorway claims
precedence on the window frames;
the mouldy ceiling I ignore
by steadfast gazing at the floor.
The locks need changing, front and back.
The termites plan a new attack.
The paint has faded, pink to white;
the plumbing squeaks and groans at night,
and all the chairs can witness that
for many years I’ve owned a cat.
But most of this will have to wait
and steadily deteriorate
till I am lying post-alive
and new, more monied heirs arrive.
They’ll wonder at the taste I had
and how I let it get this bad,
and in bewilderment begin
to shape a normal house again.
But just to spare them further shocks,
I think today I’ll change the locks.