This is a *painfully* new poem that I may scrap altogether. Constructive feedback welcome. Be gentle.
I pick up a brick from
the unfinished walkway and think
a house is a house is a house.
But the truth is
I revel in my homeowner sense
the flagpole staked on the front lawn,
our manifest destiny flapping in the breeze.
The world is full of wrecked houses
home after home,
with owners who won’t come back
or don’t know how,
astonished that this is not
the life they expected,
gardens of heavy overgrowth,
and the piercing sting of thorns.
At night, ultimately
everything comes back to me
this brick I loved and that one,
my impenetrable heart
surrounded by a chorus of tiger lilies
shaking their heads, Yes! Yes!,
Every day I make the choice
not to throw a brick through my window.
Every day is a gift I accept
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