“That’s our house, a fitting first home for us.
A short commute, two beds – master, a guest
for the in-laws, no real room to grow
beyond one child. They do allow pets though.
We talked. At this stage one would be fitting.”
A poem paces in between the walls
of a home. Pressed against insulation,
lurking in the dry wall is a nursery
rhyme waiting to be chanted round the home,
For every human face is a poem.
“We got the cat. We both got promotions.
I’m working on painting the guest room blue.
The timing isn’t what we had chosen
when we last talked family planning. It works.
We’ll fit if we don’t host anyone else.”
Write homes into chapbooks, adding pages
as more poems surprise us in corners
where we had escaped to try and pay bills,
sipping coffee, trying to stay awake.
Good poems don’t wait until you’re ready.
“The coffee maker starts brewing at five.
I’m working to build the company brand.
Nine more months and I should be promoted.
Twenty years till all comes to fruition,
It’d be sooner without the tuition.”
Not every poem has the same rhythm –
the steady slosh against the pebbled shore
progressing with the rhythmed beat of time,
some poems seem to simply lag behind.
They trip, they stutter, they clutter up the page.
“Nine months – my world might change forever
I love my son, costs lag behind wonder.
He’s playing now as I comfort my wife.
I’ve learned to love the unexpected, but
sometimes it won’t fit life as intended.”
A face is more than poems ever are
The ups and downs of a mouth’s emotions
Every internal syndrome more poignant
than Keats’ tombstone – Faces writ in water
whose voices ripple to eternity.