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Added 6 July 2000
An old man's westing-house,
flattened and destroyed by rain,
is surrounded by empty forties of booze.
All in the shadow of a blacked building.
Urine stained bushes somehow
sustain the building as much as the brick.
Metal shutters are to tired to swing
and spite the live wind that rustles
the leavings of those too poor
to pay for a care or give a damn.
Fitting companions, this building and it's squatters.
Desolate, slipshod, and somehow grand in spite of it all.
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