The aging house

The house keeps me awake
with its groans. Like an old woman
whose joints have hardened. I lie
still on my bed each night, listening to her
slowly stretching out each stair,
sometimes sighing softly,
sometimes gasping in pain.

Windows let themselves sag,
the door hangs a little loose.
Hinges mutter to themselves.
Venerable walls
carefully massage their corners.

But the dark cupboard is deaf
to murmurs of decay. Inside,
young hangers make steely love.

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