Decrepit and leaning, so weathered,
Its apertures spreading out wide,
The wood is decayed but still standing,
A lonely gray shack cast aside.
It sits on the farmland's back corner,
Away from a frivolous life,
Utility was its conception,
Supplies and containers were rife.
The needs of the farmer were changing,
Its uses declined through the years,
Until the forgotten wood structure
Would warp into what now appears.
I stare at the water-stained wallboards,
The ceiling corrupted and maimed,
I think of its maiden construction,
Its dignity newly reclaimed.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.