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Friendship House
by Bruce W Niedt
This was where we talked as intimates,
With cups of tea and overstuffed green chairs,
A place our hearts could find a perfect fit,
Before it fell into this disrepair.
The windows cracked, the roof more like a sieve,
The threadbare cushions, peeling paint in fade,
The crumbled brick, the walls about to give,
A derelict old house in weedy glade.
What happened would depend on point of view.
No handyman could make this structure sound.
The fault was mine, I think, it wasnt you.
This building will soon tumble to the ground.
Its past the time of any worth to grieve
Be sure to turn the lights out when you leave.
10/08/2001 Posted on 10/08/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt
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