House Of Strangers (Poetry)

Some rule of threes — man, woman, child
like dice that rattle in a cup
of square red brick — respectable
with basic rooms — two down, three up.

Divided space, each lived apart
set boundaries not moving much
they stayed as strangers year on year
a family not prone to touch.

Within that sterile chilly cube
the three existed — made the most
of four dry walls. When the child went
she was not missed for none felt close.

With little said and less regret
the man and woman share what’s left
a common roof and dull routine.
They keep safe distance unto death.