OUTBACK

OUTBACK

disregard the front of my building,

the high western corners, with their

implications of hidden gunmen,

the fresh paint and misleading signage,

walk down the side alley and get a look

at the low shed that hides there, leaning,

threatening to slide down the bank

into the unfrozen april stream

we all keep our faux front facing

main street, in madcap denial of the dilapidation

outback; the years of frost

working in and out of the ground have pushed

the foundation posts nearly over, they are

leaning, drunk and arrogant in the dark underneath

and out back, the cow stalls

of childhood are empty but polished, red

by years of abrasion and slaughter;

the storage closets, overflowing with

memories and paperwork, 2nd place trophies

and county fair ribbons; the leather strap

still hanging from a rusty nail

Main Street, the front row, your best face, the downtown

suit, we save for church and the guy at the bank.

well, I don’t mind admitting that my marquee is drooping

a little, there is leprous paint, pealing;

but I have taken down those false

western corners, and I leave the side door open now, yes,

for the sweet breeze to blow through

this is my house, now, open

to the western wind,

my kitchen window, now peering

out over the bank of the stream

to where dawn arrives,

each morning, with thick mist

and roses on it’s breath

yes, see me here, now,

it’s about the space, inside, the place where you are,

i am, behind that downtown face,

beyond the hand

of rouge and eye make-up;

here, I am.

© Copyright 2011 christo (christo13 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.