The strip mall lately built decays across the street
From the hard-used, quickly decaying inn.
Not enough maintenance. All of life’s extended
Phenotypes acquire the stages of life. If not
Assiduously maintained, the beaver dam,
The bowerbird’s bower, the colony, the hive,
Like the bodies that built and repaired them
While building and repairing themselves,
Crumble artlessly way, awaiting ubi sunt
Poets to cascade mourning over them. Here,
I don’t care where they are now, the teams
That used to keep this stucco crisp, this paint
Repainted, these dark carpets from curling.
There is one last effort sallying forth at the mall,
A sallow couple dressed in heavy flesh
Who have reopened the corner coffee shop
As a hash-slinging diner they’ve named
“The Cabin.” They have taped over the tears
In the benches. They serve omelettes all day.
There’s not another store front open down
The entire crumbling front of brave ambition.
Across the way, the inn still does brisk trade
Heading steadily downmarket with the bargains
Offered on the web. Desuetude indicates
Obsolescence, lack of use, but if there were
A better word, it would mean failing maintenance.
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