Old barns

The old horse barn

it's windows since covered

and sealed with wooden boards
in years of paint

the roses

clung like a proper dress

over it's body every spring

The wind would pick up

and lift the old paint

frail, with it's years of wear and tear

it quivered

yet the paint never detached

I would look at it

I would pick at it

Picking and lifting its skin

to see if what was underneath

could possibly be more presentable

Out of boredom

I would look at it with shame

and pick a little more

only entertaining the thought

that yes, it needed a fresh coat of paint

Why did it go on like this

year after year

Looking and picking and looking

at the bare wood underneath

scorning the bare, picked patches

scabs on the exterior

that multiplied by my own will

My own hands

busy enough to pick

indifferent enough to leave it this way

it's worn, repudiated body

How insincere, to possibly think

that the wind would pick up the old paint

and carry it away

That somehow

the old barn would look

like one of those sun burnt

picturesque barns in an old corn field

romantic and laden with welcoming stories

untouched, yet held with endearment