What I see on the fence
is the sign Transient House—
But aren't all homes
temporary? It is no longer
connected to me or to mine,
by virtue of deed or sale
or transfer. Still, the contours
are familiar: the double arches
above the front windows, the eaves
and soffits; the east-facing porch
where my father used to sit in his
bathrobe in the mornings. Now,
the front looks a little like
a scrapyard, the tin mailbox
something a bird's heart might have
burst through. The shadow of old vines
on the outer walls: whether herald or
lament, it's hard to tell the difference.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
