King And John Streets (For Isabella Vacancy Crawford)

When the shadows are hungry
animals on walls
and theatre goers are
parliamentarians engaged
in a repast or feast
of words.
the lone house stands
as a stone shard or sliver
about to disengage itself
from the eye.
For behind boulders of tenement
walls and vines creeping
to match the red brick of
sumac and the parrot bill of fire escape stairs,
I watch the building
cylindrical in the darkness
crouching thin air
as if an awkward child
were about to make strange
for the dozenth time.
There are few things to duplicate
plaster held by the bite of wind,
open poverty like lesions
refusing to move.
neglect that festers
to pop the endless seams
of the mind like burning
radiator caps,
scalding water to lighten
the lanced up eyes of vermin who
lather these swollen rooms.