By Glenis Moore
My body is nothing like a temple.
Temples are places of worship,
well cared for and usually beautiful,
whereas no one has worshipped at
my body for a very long time.
Now it is full of cracks
and subsidence with its windows
fogging over. Its facade is worn
so much so that even the best paint
cannot hide its imperfections.
The plumbing is a bit suspect
while the foundations aren’t always
up to the task, especially in high winds,
and, as for the PA system, well
the output is liable to crackle
and the input only works
with the volume up full.
The whole thing looks OK
dressed up for celebrations
but on a day-to-day basis it’s tired.
No wonder worshippers are few
and far between and then only
the truly desperate ones
seem to turn up. Perhaps I ought
to get the builders in at least
for a quote. After all, if you believe
what they say on the telly, it’s amazing
what you can do with an old temple
if you try hard enough.
Glenis Moore is a poet who currently lives in the flatlands of the Fens just outside of Cambridge, UK with her partner and three rescue cats. When she is not writing, she reads, makes beaded necklaces, knits, cycles, and runs 10K races slowly.
