On Jones Street every house is painted white,
each door is white, and every yard adheres
to certain rules: the grass at crew-cut height,
an apple blossom tree bent toward the sun,
a single bush trimmed squat and round and so
symmetrically it seems man-made. No one
can deviate from others in the row.
How easily I lose myself out here.
Even the dog can barely sniff his way
back from the park. Was it a left we took?
A right? Perhaps it's safer just to stay
indoors than go off course again. Oh, look--
another flag, another garden gnome,
another sign proclaiming HOME, SWEET HOME.
- Improv':
"Housing For Trust-Fund Law Students"
On Robinhood every cracked brick splits
in the same interior cavity of clay slab,
frogged scars on the long faces, with ribbed
exterior aids plastering insulation for
the convenience of the lay of an English bond;
scrape the cured concrete for a taste of its salt-
glazed surface. I try to look for some extruded
block or a trace of white powdered calcium silicate
smudged hard against cement, tearing hid off
your now raw knuckles, so we know our home—
but it’s just started to rain. Even the kiln’s fire
could not separate red hues for clear distinction.
Was the mailbox black? Grey pavement? Certainly
a white-wood door. Only two sets of thirty three
brick walls built in slated stretchers, one of which
belongs to us.
No comments:
Post a Comment