Progress, 8868

How many vultures are we, all
Pouncing on squat, decaying aluminum facade’s innards,
Scaling the grounds, as green growth rivers around the old lot
And it’s acres, cut for only a few, when there were only a few.
Now there are many, and the few are old and soon cold,
And buried deep, under stone like the weight of the pavement
That will crush this this sinking home into photographs.
It has already begun-
A hobo’s lean-to,
To an addict’s rest stop,
A treasure hunt for memory seekers,
The past is lost in the sweep, nobody
Left here, to weep.

© SXT, 2024