Hollow Bones & Empty Crates

I often wonder if things will ever change. Louisiana nights are hot and sticky. Especially in an old southern home. The small structure was built with leftover pine planks from Noah’s Ark. Or so it seems. I plead with the small window unit on a nightly basis. One room. Just cool one room. The single-pane windows laugh hysterically, as they know their RF rating disappeared long ago. I’m not the only one miserable. The wood floors know they should have been replaced a long time ago. Decades of expanding and contracting have left them with gaps large enough to pass light. I keep telling myself that I’m going to fix them. Sand them properly and mend the cracks with a seamstress's precision. I don’t. My grandmother worked her entire life as a seamstress. A small sewing factory in West Virginia sapped nearly all the functionality from her hands. She would be furious at me for procrastinating. I blame my lack of enthusiasm on the empty Frigidaire. A constant lack of nutrients leaves a man sluggish. Empty egg crates. They’re always empty. I often wonder if things will ever change.