Fine Print

This entry is part 5 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

Silent as a thief, the sun climbs through the trees:
it takes the shadow from the weather vane, erases the film

that presses on the windows of new homes. Each one’s
identical to the next, from color, trim, to gable;

they’re sided in aluminum that’s made to look like wood.
Square footage’s under 1600 feet. Between each unit

is a gap of air; interior panels are soft wood (spruce,
or pine, or fir). I might hear you scrape your chair

away from the dinner table, or yell downstairs
for someone to take out the trash. Each one

that lives here now paid more or less the same coin
from their coffers— Or rather, has had their credit

scrutinized and been approved for thirty years’ indenture.
But all things new invariably deteriorate, just as the bread

which starts surrendering to mold after the first hot kiss
of air. The man in Unit B is missing the quarter round

mouldings from his bathroom tile: the rest run through
his rooms and hallways, ending at the beak. In Unit D,

a family of mice has burrowed through an air leak:
from their nest behind the eaves, in the quiet house,

you can hear the mewling. There’s always something more
to sand, to fit, to finish. But some contracts are impossible

to rewrite, restructure, refinance: so let it go
when the sun goes down, torching the leaves in exit.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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