All the unpaid bills wrestling interest rates,
while past-due dates wait with their boutonnieres.
And the slumping bike, strangled with a lock
that we forgot the combination to.
The old house drinks everything we hide,
and hums sad songs that keep us up all night.
With the doorknobs loose and the pipes that burst.
With the fuses blown and the taps reversed.
The calendar requests a meeting to discuss
the time we waste, when would be good for you?
And the sidewalk cracks spell the way back home
in one uninterrupted palindrome.
The old house keeps all of our receipts
in envelopes secured with rubber bands.
Oh the blinking snow, and the dark dispersed
with a smeary moon. With our taps reversed.
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