Two rungs from the top, where you can see
what no one else could see, there are no more
handles on the world, I have to lean
against the warm cliff-face of my house,
cheek to cheek with wood, and, butting
the chisel’s butt-end crosswise with one palm,
drive it, balking, under the lapped siding
to strip more cracked paint off, baring
more evidence.
Below, I hear my children
laughing. A screen door slams. They don’t suspect
I’m here. They don’t care. The beautiful lie
of this October afternoon maintains
its poise, steadfast as those brilliant aisles
the sun is laying down over the grass
in layers. The end of weather. You almost
believe it. That somehow the damage is not
serious. And you will always wonder why
when no one says you must, you keep coming back
here anyway, obediently, all by yourself,
to this ladder on the northwest side
for your appointment, and go up quietly.
Scraping the House
Did you enjoy the the artible “Scraping the House” from Jonathan Holden on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply