Old Sort of House

Old Sort of House - Solo Voice and Piano

Words by J. Epo

It was an old sort of house, the kind not often seen anymore

in singapore

with its eaves dripping damp splats of rain and leaves
and the geckos sheltered within
chattering their indignation
because the station
construction had been going on for some time.

it was an old sort of house, the kind that stands
up on blocks carried by hands
near the sea, and the halls once full of servants
watching and
searching for crumbs lest the ants
have their way
invade for the day
wriggling threads of black draped over windowsills
open doorways
cracks in the baseboards

[and devour us whole]

it was an old sort of house, the kind with a staunch regality
distinct personality
from the waifs climbing ever higher into the sky.
each building surpassing
the last, outclassing
it fast in tangible dissipation.

one day all will be vapor,
or sketches on paper
where skyscrapers used to be;
but the old sort of house, with its old sort of air
and its greying walls of whitewash
and its black peeling shutters
that block out the stutters
of that never meant to endure,