Cultivating a Lack of Propriety
Always false, her sense of.
A front, cobbled together boards
painted to look like something
else. Suburbia hiding tumbleweeds.
Stripping down in mid-day sun
she takes crowbar and hammer,
whacks away at the general store,
the tea room, the jailhouse.
Hard work, to break down
this distorted authenticity,
expose her aged beams,
hand-hewn, full of character.
She wants to build something
else. A dance hall, saloon, brothel
maybe? Let the wild, wild west
of her mind take over construction.
Or maybe stay with the skeleton?
Bare bones of her natural framework.
Leave all open to the elements:
air, water, earth, space, fire.
Tomorrow is the last day of April, poetry month. Don't know if you're (all three of you) are sick of seeing just about only poems or what here. But this morning the phrase "lack of propriety" popped into my head (won't tell you what I was thinking about), and this poem was born! The picture is of some old barn timbers we got the other year with hopes to use some or all of them to build not just my writing cabin, but our house up in our Maine woods. In the meantime, I'm working on cultivating my true self.