Battened

This is the house that love built.

You know the one, it’s yellow

with the burning bush out front

providing privacy for

inside our bedroom window,

where nighttime huddling against

demands of the outside world

reaches its peak in darkest

hours, wrapped in hand-quilted rags,

flannel & corduroy clouds,

arms for buoying, protecting

all we’ve grown together. Yet

the long arm of you-know-what

is just outside that same glass,

its death-grip squeezing, squeezing

till the siding cracks, shingles

rattle; we crank the volume

to mute its scolding (you’ve made

poor choices, now deal with them).

Responsibility weighs

on the shoulders of the strong

so carry that weight, pillows

cast aside, carry that weight

as the strongarms of finance

squeeze us dry, replace slumber

with debtor nightmares, pin hope

to the immobility

mat, cradle every last dream

till we’re dead. In here tonight

our flannel sanctuary

still holds, ricketier than

yesterday, but standing on

a foundation stronger than

concrete, poured with vigilance,

shored between storms, poverty

at 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.