Something Built, or A Home

I. (Allenwood, NJ)
How peaceful is this
room my father built
two years ago but has
yet to fill with furniture.
It is a project left un-
finished. A victim of
sweetly shared,
common dramas
of aging and
bodies once strong,
bending
under the curve
of the clock’s hand.

When a television
meets the western wall
between the two windows
generous with sunlight,
I will enjoy this room
much less.
For now, there’s
a sofa and items
stored in the corner

Temporarily placed,
with no where else to be
right now,
like me,
settling back
into the home
my father built,
feeling familiar
grievances in
other rooms
less empty.
The corners
dulled as
children grew.

II. (Hazlet, NJ)

There were hanging baskets,

brimming with vines
a glass wall with shelves-
it was chic in their time.
Pop would lift the baby
into tree branches
and walk her along the garden,
rows and rows of begonias.
Dark leaves will return her to
records of The Eagles.

There are many different ways to plant a seed.

III. (West Belmar, NJ)
Home improvement
projects require
shirts stained by sweat
and hands dusty
from sheetrock.
Crafting a home
is no simple task
and yet he says it’s so
simple, nearly
instinctual to
grow his home
to offer us
more room to move
or stay, like he does too.

Carving words into the
unpainted wall we are
untouchably safe, like
ripe fruit not picked
from the vine on which
originally it grew.

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Filed under Poetry, Stories

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