Here, feel the desperate-sad,
Ready-to-expire character
Surrounding the deserted,
Edge of mid-town buildings;
The ones avoided by rats
And shunned by even
The loneliest of ghosts.
Here, glimpse the eyeless,
Broken-pained windows
That briefly grasp at skypieces
But fail to hold their interest.
Holes where slates once held
A certain vertigo-sway,
Injured-bone joists,
White tumbled bricks,
Floor without full boards,
Webs without cobs …
Stairs without risers.
There’s nothing here –
Neither arch nor fair, and
I cannot say there ever was,
Being stranger here myself,
With doors to lock,
Promises to keep
And ways to make.