When It Becomes Quiet Enough

When it becomes quiet enough You can hear the house, plotting against you: Future cracks in the foundation start creeping Along the lines left by shrinking timbers. The shingles shift, by fractional degrees Toward and away from one another, creating openings For the prying fingers of wind and his brother rain. Dry rot starts in, at the molecular level, as if to oppose directly the mold: A race to the finish line begins, for who will come to own which corner, With bets opened in absentia, by the ants and cockroaches. The field mice are chewing holes in all the vent covers, To arrange for their springtime visits and nest fashioning. And sexy termites are dreaming of the come-hither looks They are preparing for the male of the species As he preens himself in your extinct begonia patch, next spring. You sit above it all, sipping your hot coffee, and catching up with the news While wondering which part of the world Will come crashing down next.