“Good Bones,” she insists,
though neglect has taken its toll,
foundations sinking into soil,
roots exposed to wind’s harsh toll.
“You can fix the rot,”
her voice is worn,
as if she’s shown this place,
a hundred times, before, before.
They say location is everything,
but these streets have witnessed violence,
threats simmering into civil war,
behind those masks, despair.
“Character” she calls,
the sagging in the floor,
the way revolution pulls,
spiralling toward the core.
History written in bullet holes,
stories buried beneath rubble,
waiting for a hand to grab
to lift the weight of heaven.
“Japanese Knotweed,”
she glosses over that silent, invasive snare,
like a hostile takeover,
a planned for coup d'etat.
Strangling the veins.
Turning water to rust.
“It’s a little run-down”, she admits,
“a fixer-upper, you see,
if you can work a lifetime,
just imagine, what it could be.”
Unseen but unyielding,
hope tangled in the weeds.
A future waiting in the debris,
if only someone dares to believe.
Coming to a town near you?
