as buildings,
shelter from the storms,
wide structures made of brick
and steel,
hard wood.
always together,
each child a different
room.
mother and father,
roaming
the halls,
basement and roof.
the elders, tucked away,
facing the sunsets,
babies,
too, you can hear them
grow,
in quiet droves,
noisy, fat and full.
their
care and adoration
making them whole.
but so much of that isn't
true.
the wood
grows weak, the welded
joints
come unglued,
the paint peels,
the windows crack and let
in the wind.
the outside world,
and once
out, it's hard, very hard
to pretend that all is well
with everyone
and go back again.
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