A Provincial Life

Inspired by your use of asterisks, I decided to write a poem using them, since for Prof M's class I had to write a "conversation" poem with a refrain.

A Provincial Life

The old house breathed slowly,
       (cracked in the ribs from a night
out drinking and a day spent
       bulldozing)
creaking painfully, aware
it breathed its last.
       (First, its head was chopped
off—a kind of lobotomy, you know—
       then brains scooped out and
belly distended in a sigh).
I hope the house knows that I will miss it,
       (especially the scaffolding).
I will remember your fall from glory
when no one else does.
*
It is a provincial life.
*
How are we so old and
so young
at the same time?
       (Am I not who I once was?
Am I not who I will be?
       I am, I am).
The dirt speaks of eons
       (I speak of a lifetime).
Can I channel Frost?
       (I, too, am a swinger of
birches,
       branches reaching down like
long fingers).
How old is anyone, anyway,
if all our atoms are just
borrowed?
*
It is a provincial life.
*
We set off, a pair of love birds,
off to see other love birds
       (my wings, however, were too
slick with oil
       to fly).
The Bride and Groom looked at each other,
and I, I looked at you
       (well—maybe).
*
It is a provincial life.

Justine Bienkowski