One building out of many still breathes,
is still filled with people in need of
something.
But it’s not clear how or where they might find it in this place,
surrounded by metaphors,
American Horror Story-ass nightmare structures.
Solitude and broken windows,
rusted grates, chipped paint,
unevenly kept lawns.
It’s almost perfect, except that
the cloudy windows are absent gaunt, vacant-eyed and stringy-haired girls in dirty white gowns,
staring out and into our souls.
It’s poetry fuel,
way more than a sight for healing.

Security guards casually cruise the grounds,
ensuring that most outsiders stay
outsiders.
And, at this point, almost everyone is an outsider.
(This is irony, because those inside the building are held outside of the general public.)

A place where a healthy, strong man
might do well gathering pecans
is not, necessarily,
a place
where the sick and weak can be healed,
no matter how long the summer lasts.
It may also be a good place to inspire art;
for whatever that’s worth.