On Entropy

Here a line of cracks, a winter whisper through a hole.

What plaster need could be more evident?

There is no doubt: The shift

of tectonic plates

would not have portent greater

than these creaks of doors, on stairs,

a radiator’s whine, the distillation

of its pained complaints, or when

sinks begin to sing

a song of rust.

I sit. I’d rather sit, before the fire,

and read my fill of jollier times and warmer places,

than open cans of paint, and kits for mixing calk,

or get out the tools

to make repairs.

But duty calls.

But duty calls.

If I’m to forestall

the fall of walls.

the entropic end of all,