wooden frame

my clocks are always ticking,

and my half built home, keeps sinking.

keeps sinking.

con-crete, not sand,
the place to build a house is a,
city not an ocean,

you, fool,

I'm a fool,

obvious, in my barest bones a,
wooden frame, a curtain ghost,
my bedroom is the only room,
with central heat.

with central heat.

o' to fall into the hole I call,
my parlor and my kitchen,
my lungs are always itching from the fiberglass,
yet exposed, a crooked narrow beam frames my un-gentle face,

diamond in the rough, I am flaw, rawer than the rocks that frame the furnace,

it's so bare-bones, you can see, all that I own,
my desk and my loveseat,
my arm-chair, coffee table and cold cup of tea.

cold cup of tea.

I need.

a.

wall.

for snow is in my laundry again,
I've had this inkling of being exposed,
funny feelings and false alarms,

at least I'll never have to buy a smoke detector, because this place is much too damp,

I'd do it myself,

if only had I a match set and a lamp, to hang upon the unfinished studs.

and

burn.

my.

wooden frame.

down.