Renovation

After you’d picked them clean as bones, and lapped

Their blood up with your tongue like a sponge absorbs water,

You came in, panting, awaiting reward;

I scolded you for killing so eagerly

The birds that flew too low

While I stood inside painting the staircase.

No care was taken to preserve this place --

Wallpaper rolled at the seams like worn books’ pages,

Oak floors doomed to rot and decay, yellowed

Paper corners escaping the bulging desk drawers --

A writer lived here, not much a caretaker,

But somebody was born in every room.