For a Pot of Paint
The tall bay window
is our empty white frame –
on the front of this home
of unshuttered shame –
but now winter-battered –
past my amateur repair –
the paint has flaked off
through changes out there –
The weather has whipped it
in layer-thrashed strokes –
like the blistered hull
of a forgot-turned boat –
with a peeled underbelly
for so long undressed –
it has been left unsealed
losing sea-worthiness
No sensible man
would sail in her –
he would never return –
she is so unfair