Fewer

I am alone on this street.

The old Victorian house with shutters dragging toward the lawn,
Its brilliant color now irrevocably muted as the wood dampens, worms and begins to rot.
The tall, stately storefront with crumbling brick, disintegrating purpose,
Was once built by a man who felt proud and strong,
Like that brick.

I look around and there are fewer,
There is less.
Piece by piece it blows away with each gentle breeze,
The imperceptible grace of destruction,
A town in entropy.

I am alone on this street.

And I am oriented by purpose, imbued with power, and in a state of pure inspiration,
As I rearrange the crumbs of this place,
I create a masterpiece of dust with my hands,
And wait for the next gentle wind to carry me away.


Jess Weible