Behind The Curtain
By
John I. Blair
So much of life presents to me
A curtain drawn between my sense
And reality beyond.
In my house of plastered rooms
I invoke a cloistered calm,
Decorous, cool, sequestered.
The surfaces seem smooth
And meet at constant angles,
Soothing, planned, predictable,
A painting here, a table there,
Windows where I want them,
Doors with brassy locks.
But one disaster, a random fire,
A flood or earthquake,
And truth stands all revealed:
This house is just a sham,
A congeries of bricks and sticks,
With awkward, twisting wires and pipes.
Beneath the skin it is contrived,
A crude device for living in,
No better than myself.
©2005 John I. Blair
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