Walls
There is decay in this house, buried beneath
The dusty cabinets and empty perfume bottles
and knob rattling when it drops
when my father tries to lock the door to the garden.
Every time I visit this house gets smaller
The walls a slightly deeper shade of blue
With cracks and holes, wrinkles and scars
Was I complicit in the neglect
or is it hubris to think I could stop time?
Could the prodigal son, upon seeing
the state of his father’s house, offer
I have seen the world and I can help you
And would the father have grace and humility to accept?