If the windows didn’t open
It was because of the age.
Things stick after years of stasis.
I watched them for hours, waiting
For one to yawn, peep or sneeze,
Feeling the sense of something there.
These pensioners are alive
Know in their timber that time
Has moved on, is different now.
Bricks come and go but I swear
You’d think these were permanent
The way they seem to out-wait death.