House

He tried to construct a house

where his poems could dwell
safe from jealous winds 
and the floods of hate,
so, perhaps, could last forever. 
It didn’t work.

Because he built with words,
because words change
in spelling, pronunciation,
and what they mean,
and even who defines them:
the careless young

who choose to foster music, 
music so loud 
it is heard outside closed windows

whether house or car, 
cries of despair 
from a rage of narcissistic rebellion.

And so why not? 
It is their own world now:
one of accusation, 
assigned blame, and, therefore, war
and, of course, a need 
to be both first and the loudest

and so sustain
a concert of violent rhythms
that come at cost. 
“Me first,” the sweetest of boasts,
the lie, the tweet, 
and sometimes admitted blame.

But that is rare. 
Universal is lack of kindness,

the need to boast,
and deficits raised to the trillions.
And, of course, destruction
of the house it took lifetimes to build,

now tumbled down,
what once was carefully attended,
and is no more, 
as if it had never happened,
or, if so, forgotten… 

and none who even regret or rue the cost.