This Old House —Safia Jama
after Bob Vila
Today we convert this puddle
of words into a windowpane.
Outside, the rain.
My brother and I are out in it.
We run and splash and play and—
No ... I’m alone in my room, writing.
In the rain
all the smokers are lovers again
Be sure to have all your materials ready.
Father, methodically killing the rose bush.
Ash, ash goes the green.
In the rain there rises a wall,
formal as Berlin. See how
the walls melt into rot?
Welcome to This Old House.
Today we will build
a kingdom out of a crown.
and Mother’s frown.
Patrick T. Reardon