Wood

wood that the
wood-termites chew
withstands the
withdrawal.
it’s a wood-bank,
like a food-bank
for foragers.
eaten away,
the planks and posts
stand still,
an image
of intensely slow
crumbling,
hosts for the hungry,
pallid as ghosts.
good will
is in good supply
here in these halls
of holes
and grainy porridge
bowls.
“please, sir,
may i have
another?”
i read dickens
in the woods,
stricken
with the sense
of convalescence,
even as the
walls weaken,
mumbling not
with wheedling
words
of the ways of the
woods and the
termites’
feeding,
needing, and yet
not pleading.

George Pestana is a software developer and poet living in Texas.  He has a love for cats, word-play, and semi-deep thoughts.  He has written four collections of his poetry (“Raven”, “Breathing in Quarantine”, “Apollo’s Arrows”, “Bathysphere”), and is working on his fifth (“Cressida”). A selection of his works as well as links to his books can be found on the website he created : oddwritings.com     Find him on Twitter  @OddWritings