July 10, 2018Settling
I want to wake in a place old
enough to know crumble, a house
built with lath and mortar,
that sloppy concoction of sandy
glue oozing between little strips
of thin wood. In any corner
you’ll find walls defying “plumb,”
honoring gravity, some cracks
creating the face of a woman in repose,
the shape of a moose, his hairy neck
crooked as a boxer’s nose.
Maybe an old dog left chemical
traces of his wag, elemental evidence
of loyalty embedded in the oak’s grain,
his claws’ happy scramble etched
where the varnish has faded.
Those planks, weighted with work
boots and real leather heels will tilt
off center, the way a gaze through
window panes made before glass
was perfected will distort the view
so any gaze is like peering
through soap bubbles. Too much
is made of the sleek caress of new
drawers that open on cue. How else
to locate fortitude but through
the nagging knot of failure at the fourth
or fourteenth try? Give me a path
of settling flagstone, something
to stub my toe against, to learn
negotiation, the patient splinter
saving itself for my foot, ignoring
the fleshy heels of all who passed before.