A Poem

A Change of Skin

Two men are at work next door to me
On the house  behind the tall oak tree
That lost some limbs in the storm last year.
They’re putting on new siding.  The work is dear.

Today they ripped the old stuff off.
Starting early shortly after the sun was up
Their hammers’ claws bit deep, off came
The old skin in strips to be thrown away.

The house is little more than half my age
And this is its third set of skin.
I’ll bet the oak’s at least twice me at least
Tough, strong, thick and darkly sheathed
And I though wrinkled, loose and thin
Still have some use left in my old skin.

Something plastic, white, covers it now:
“Tyvek Home Wrap” is says, from Du Pont.
One of them called it vapor block when I asked
And turned to his ripping, stapling, taping task.

I turned back to what I was doing then.
Tomorrow the new stuff gets stuck on;
Blue I think.  I wonder if I’ll be here or gone
Before the siding get itself changed again.

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