If I were a wall I’d be a red brick one.
The type of red that weather and time has melted into grey.
Pleading still though to be noticed.
Like confessions of the disillusioned.
A greyish, pleading, red brick wall.
And if I were a red brick wall I’d be covered with kudzu.
Not enough to overpower, but enough to draw a fight.
Climbing up and out and over and down.
Like the laying on of hands.
A praying, pleading, kudzu-covered, greyish red brick wall.
And if I were covered with kudzu I’d be home to evening’s song.
An orchestra of insects.
A thousand little bug quartets in glassy harmony.
Like a choir of children in white, lace dresses and tiny khaki pants.
A praying, pleading, glory-singing, greyish red brick wall.
And underneath the kudzu I’d be naked and revealed.
Cracks stretching through the mortar.
Splitting and swirling and slicing and scared.
Like a map that leads to yesterday.
A helpless, pleading, kudzu-clothed, greyish red brick wall.
A praying, pleading, glory-singing, broken red brick wall.
That is, if I were a wall.