An abandoned building. 
A vacant, dilapidated home. 
Often inhabited by drug dealers or the unhoused.

I stare at the structure, unsound. 
It’s weary materials ready to crumble
At the slightest gust of wind.

Succumbing to years of neglect and unwantedness.

What changed?

Surely the building’s developers didn’t blueprint
A shaky foundation. 

The construction crew of course made sure
Each screw was tight
Each brick mortared
Each plank nailed. 
Fixed. 

Didn’t they think to plan for decay? 

And what of the tenants? How many have moved in and out,
Pulling up rugs that once comforted
happy-to-be-home feet?

Not all of the windows are boarded up,
And even those planks of wood are no longer bright timber.
Weathered. 
Urban dirty. 

Some windows still have curtains, now thin threads. 
Hanging.
Resolute in shielding the soul of the house. 

Surely this structure still has a soul. 

Last week
The yard to this particular bando was an overgrown jungle.
Styrofoam food containers, newspapers, and empty pop bottles
Strewn among the native foliage.

Today
The grass sits trim with a fresh bald fade. 
I wonder who cut the yard, and why?

Maybe the bando is on it’s way
To becoming a home again.