Complaint
by William Logan
The faucets squeeze
out a dribble of rust.
The stained slip-covers
fray like seaweed. Scruffy, haggled
weeds confined to broken pots;
shy, disfigured poppies;
a barked rose succumbing
to white-frocked aphids—
the garden doesn't work. The heater
doesn't work. Nothing works.
Who lives in such a house?
The pipes piss and moan,
as if forced to pay taxes.
If there are dream houses,
are there undreamed houses
full of the things we desire,
or only those we deserve?
Perhaps they are the homes
of strange gods with some
incomprehensible, whimsical
way of looking at things.
You said we waded through the mysteries to get here.
Copyright © 2011 by William Logan.
Image by KTS
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