Self-Medication in Two Doses
Splintering foundation beams
nailed over with sheets of cheap lattice,
planes of plate glass gone missing
replaced with windows stained garish.
Smattering of tacked-on shingles
shielded by industrial metal roof.
Paint slapped over graffiti
but the cuss words bleed through.
Rusted hinges turn to dust,
every door slaps scratched floors.
Wind wears away chipped paint,
sunshine bleaches stains.
Rain soaks into crumbling roof,
rots it open to the stars.
Walls sag and crumble beneath
encroaching garden overgrowth.
Wild roots into manmade ruins,
undone and in bloom.
Sam Corradetti is a queer writer in southern New Jersey. They are currently pursuing an MFA at Temple University in Philadelphia.