This is the house that love built.You know the one, it’s yellowwith the burning bush out frontproviding privacy for
inside our bedroom window,where nighttime huddling againstdemands of the outside worldreaches its peak in darkest
hours, wrapped in hand-quilted rags,flannel & corduroy clouds,arms for buoying, protectingall we’ve grown together. Yet
the long arm of you-know-whatis just outside that same glass,its death-grip squeezing, squeezingtill the siding cracks, shingles
rattle; we crank the volumeto mute its scolding (you’ve madepoor choices, now deal with them).Responsibility weighs
on the shoulders of the strongso carry that weight, pillowscast aside, carry that weightas the strongarms of finance
squeeze us dry, replace slumberwith debtor nightmares, pin hopeto the immobilitymat, cradle every last dream
till we’re dead. In here tonightour flannel sanctuarystill holds, ricketier thanyesterday, but standing on
a foundation stronger thanconcrete, poured with vigilance,shored between storms, povertyat arm’s length while we make love.
For
Kerry’s weekend prompt to the Real Toads, celebrating the birthday of Marianne Moore. This is my imaginary (okay, real) garden with a real (I wish imaginary) toad in it. Or containing it.
Also #3 of 30 Poems In November to benefit Center for New Americans.