Gladsheim Boulevard

The old house is

juxtaposed upon a cliff

near rushing ocean waves.

The angry froth looks like

foamy mouthwash,

bursting inwards onto rocks

with the transcendent tides.

It’s a cape with rotting siding

that was white one year,

dead one hundred later.

Wood, broken window panes

and chips of old glass

smother the sinking floor.

The sea breeze shakes and

rattles the struggling structure,

makes the house a wind tunnel,

that with its howling blast

flutters the curtains like ghosts.

Its shattered windows

become lost and lonely eyes.

Gray skies and bouts of rain

pound the pouting house,

stir up a storm and swell the sea

like a boiling iron kettle.

The old house loses shingles,

shutters, and oaken doors.

The eyeless face gazes

out through the summer,

winter, autumn, and spring.

Its family is relinquished,

and in only one more dawn

the storm surge will

founder its foundation

and float it away.

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