The Ruin

The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.

Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.



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