This Old Poor

Poor house. I watched family after family move in a nd out. Like creatures living in an old oak. Like grubs really. Like parasites in some fashion they burrow in bring with them all manner of relatives, of things, clothes, toys. Then they leave. Poor house is left with just a little more old. Until you finally look like a man wearing down on his last legs. You sign more. You creak more. Each pop of a joint tells the story of another family who had come and gone and grubbed out your innards. Perhaps eaten away the last of the heartwood. But before the families stoop signaling that last finality that would leave you to fall away, there come the lovely scavengers. They pick clean the bones, making something stark and still beautiful out of the refuse. In place of life they leave art that still yet becomes the home for others. Poor house reborn through those who still have an eye for the magic of transformations.