INTERLUDE A
Please don't make me your home.
I'm doomed for foreclosure
with crumbling foundations held up with scotch-tape and hope.
I've got a wreck of a basement
and an attic painted mustard yellow
and leaky faucets that drip the years away.
I know what they all tell you -
time to renovate!
Go ahead and bring in your demolition men,
but only if
you enjoy the sound of screaming.
(you wouldn't be the first)
.
And, besides,
how many houses have legs to walk away with
arms to push away with
tongues to say 'I'm sorry' with
that lingering 'but' hanging in the air;
I'm sorry, but, goodbye.
Think of me as a cheap motel –
a place to stay for a little while
only a little bit infested
and at least i'll make you smile.
But don't make me your home.
.
Sure, for a week, you might tolerate
the holes in the wall and ceiling,
but it won't be long before you get out the polymer,
seal them up and forget about them –
then paint over them because they're still there.
Can't you see that they won't fade?
My structural integrity is compromised
And one day I'll crumble away.
So you can look and see and touch and fuck all you want.
You're nice, really.
Just don't make me your home.