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.