Despite an inground pool of tears of boredom,
as rust stains the chrome on the entrance rail,
for every yawn I left behind in better years
to become but algae and grow amidst itself,
true to myself but deaf to any bell ringing
and blind to the changing of the guard,
for you I preserve but only this forewarning:
drain this swamp of consequence and
ten years later I’ll reward you
with the deed to a sinking home.