The Bungalow

Across the street, the Bungalow

with its burnt, proud brick, stubborn and red
standing tough since the end of last summer

has finally and inevitably begun to come
Undone

The shingled and slanted roof
layered one too many times
like grandmother's ice cream cake
has, in spite of its patient protests
finally relented
to the hollering hinges
that have born the weight of winter's snow

The aluminum porch canopy
Once the lookout tower for many a snowball fort
Now lies collapsed
surrendered
Scraping a forbidden trench into father's front lawn
and abandoning its ally 
the splintering bench
that has refused to abandon its post 

The dining room is exposed
To say nothing of the family's den
Each whistling their dismay

past beams and joists
bowed by long-winded pressure
These rooms recall faint memories
of dinner parties and movie nights
like an old carousel projector playing itself

Rain's condescension

and Fire's temper
have relentlessly injected themselves
into this conversation of wood
Accelerating the chaos
and inviting the mud
that was always welcomed by mother
and was always forgiven during table grace

And now
The door no longer welcomes friends
The stairs no longer awaken parents
The bedrooms no longer cultivate dreams
The rafters no longer conjure majesty
The hearth no longer seems righteous

This Bungalow
with it's resilient picket fence, stained and chafing
Hanging tough since the end of last summer
has finally and inevitably come
Undone