Brownstones Fading
Along dusty walls
of just another industrial age baron’s digs,
daguerreotype portraits hang askew,
as five-story hallways
continue their slip and sway erosion
like the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari slanting to life.
Rotting wood of His Master’s Voice gramophone
plays host to the termite foreclosure
that circumscribed the landmark living space
Caruso’s recorded voice once filled,
now but dust-covered chairs and sofas
of once embracing devotees of wealth and culture.
From its marbled entry steps,
a homeless waif
gives comfort to a frightened kitten,
spreading dumpster findings
of rags and packing foam
where both will sleep the night,
as ghostly servants float past,
already late for their shift.
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While watching HGTV I am appalled at the taste of constantly trending style that keeps changing at a rapid pace where what was gauche even a short time ago is now ready for the hammer or wrecking ball. Perfectly good style pieces destroyed forever like terrorists who destroy ancient past as some kind of deranged hatred for what was loved.
Why I'm keeping my unpainted brick fireplace façade, my Formica, still unscarred countertops, non-stainless steel appliances, cheap aluminum windows, ample natural oak cabinets that need refinishing only, faux wood island that is very functional. Workable bathrooms and bathroom layouts. And, of course, the look that makes my home, chosen for its open layout and large kitchen, two master bedrooms and a third larger one, from the 1980s, still valid and useful.
Except for tile floor, I'm not changing a thing. Not even the secure looking, but not wealthy looking, curb appeal.
Ron