by S. Swea
“Look what I’ve done with the place,”
you say, beaming from ear to ear
and I don’t have the heart to tell you
I can’t see the difference.
You swept out yesteryear with the rest of the rubbish,
piled it in a heap but I can still see bones
amidst the debris.
They shine like silver
and bite like bullets.
And you still wear their brands on your skin
as expensive leather, freshly skinned
and hung out to drip itself dry
while you smoke your imported cigars
and talk about the times.
The previous owners carved up the house like butchers,
and your scalpel runs those very same lines
just with a little more precision.
You do it cleanly. You say, division is human nature.
It helps you sleep at night.
“I’ve refashioned everything,” you assure me,
“The walls, the floors, the laws and more.”
I squint at the peeling paper and think:
Words of any other ink blot just as thick.
The same sentence slid into a new skin.
I suppose that makes it new.