Things Fall Apart
I’d rather watch the vanities of man
sag and collapse under the weight
of years than to spend my weekends
trimming hedges, touching up paint
or soothing hinges with an oil can.
Let these walls tumble down in a lovely heap
and the floor rot out beneath. If a storm
brings an oak through the roof, I won’t abandon
the place, I’ll revel among the leaves.
I’m ready to observe its final decay,
keep the images in my pocket
like an apocalyptic prophet
or derelict poet who failed
the American dream.
Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. http://www.bartbarkerpoet.com