The Shed
Hard metal
Rusted roof with streaks of orange and brown
like the torn out pages of her grease splattered cookbook
solid foundation yet your wobbly sound
when I touch you show me
that maybe you’re not as strong as I once thought.
Maybe I could even pick you up and throw you across
the moon.
But you’d never really be gone, not really.
Lodged in the recesses of my five year old brain.
A memory.
Mosquitos, gnats, worms, beetles, ants, lifeforms
have all called you home.
But you weren’t home to me.
You scared me.
Dark, musty, unknown
A house of killing machines
Poison, electric chair, metal trap, saw blade
-
Take your pick
-
I kept my distance, my bike rusting in the rain
rather then being protected by the likes
of you.
But you’re just a shed with hard metal,
a rusted roof with streaks of orange and broken
like the torn out pages of her grease splattered cookbook.
You were just doing your job -
A shed.
You rusted, iced over, scorched, curved, warped,
bent under the pressure of time.
I forgot you until just now.
Peaceful, muted, musty footsteps
Agents of torture are still here - shifted and expired
but still hold presence.
Yet you are part of the landscape. A home to many.
Angie Reisch
Hard metal
Rusted roof with streaks of orange and brown
like the torn out pages of her grease splattered cookbook
solid foundation yet your wobbly sound
when I touch you show me
that maybe you’re not as strong as I once thought.
Maybe I could even pick you up and throw you across
the moon.
But you’d never really be gone, not really.
Lodged in the recesses of my five year old brain.
A memory.
Mosquitos, gnats, worms, beetles, ants, lifeforms
have all called you home.
But you weren’t home to me.
You scared me.
Dark, musty, unknown
A house of killing machines
Poison, electric chair, metal trap, saw blade
-
Take your pick
-
I kept my distance, my bike rusting in the rain
rather then being protected by the likes
of you.
But you’re just a shed with hard metal,
a rusted roof with streaks of orange and broken
like the torn out pages of her grease splattered cookbook.
You were just doing your job -
A shed.
You rusted, iced over, scorched, curved, warped,
bent under the pressure of time.
I forgot you until just now.
Peaceful, muted, musty footsteps
Agents of torture are still here - shifted and expired
but still hold presence.
Yet you are part of the landscape. A home to many.
Angie Reisch