Glaucoma window, a pot belly stove
With skin of ash, a chair with a plastic seat
Fallen on its side, perhaps had flung an old man after stroke.
We crept over boards, hunch-backed and steely
Through cobweb veils of sainthood where
We drew up our knuckled sticks to tear them down. It was
A black empire with half-wit doubts whether to crumble or display its
Dank table another day. We swore to holy secrecy. After malicious
Winds buckled it in, each of us kept a board and nail.
Now my friend's eyes travel architectural print. I drink. At our usual bar,
I talk of the fallen house, watch his cuff links
Reflect chandeliers' jingling tiny bits of sun.
The mirror behind the stalwart bottles shows his contempt for past losses.
I smoke and nod, see the grey timber's tremblings crosses.