Game of Thrones
It was an
ugly building
No matter
the attempts to dress it up.
Rough
lumber formed sides and door.
Tin on the
roof, sometimes.
Surrounded
by flies in Summer,
And poke
berries for color.
Winter
brought frost.
Ice and
snow found the wall’s cracks
And covered
the seat
Which had
no lid.
Scraping
was required
Before
business conducted.
The
building
In winter
taught self control.
The path
was not trod unless
There were
no other options.
In summer
it taught tolerance
For odors,
textures, and flies,
And snakes.
The
building
Was
educational,
Housing
reading material
That served
multiple purposes.
I learned
about the latest
In bicycles
and toys,
And ladies’
undergarments.
The
building
Had one
hole.
Churches in
the country had two.
I marveled
at the fact.
Rich people
may have had two, too.
Perhaps.
The
building
Was my
hideout,
Separated
by the three-rooms
By twenty
feet of scrub grass.
I owned
this three-by-four feet of space.
This was my
building for years.
Until it
disappeared,
And
four-by-six feet of warmth
And comfort
Was brought
into my house on Ice Plant Hill.
We now
share special,
Porcelain-endowed,
spacious rooms, indoors.
We now, in comfort
and privilege
With time on our hands,
Devote
ourselves to wondering who
Used these special
places before us,
Who occupies
them with us now,
And whether
or not these imagined people
Are worthy
of us.
They scare
us, these imaginary people,
More than
the flies and snakes,
The ice and
snow,
That used
to greet us each morning
In the
building that sat outside in the cold.
