Bungalow

When I lay my labors in the foyer
with my shoes and the soils
lodged in their soles, I take leave
of this world. I take leave and let
the rough hands of this house
unknot the sinew. I let the framers
and the plaster men, the joiners
and painters, the roofers and masons
build me however they may.

Sometimes I take leave from this house
and fume from the eaves, more vapor
than weary, and curl into the ionosphere,
charged and thus emboldened to return,
gathered as rain about a fleck.
Sometimes, when my bones refuse
such fancies, I work with the ghosts,
both past and future that wander
these rooms, and tend to the cracks.

Image: Roel van Sabben on Unsplash