I Am the House

a poem

(2023) Home repair.

The hot water pipe burst

in a mist

from the flowering patina

on the copper

showing its age.

In our bedroom,

a drip…drip…drip

from the register upstairs,

the drywall bowing

a water stain phallus

developing on the ceiling.

When my tears burst

upstairs that night

in uncontrollable sobs

from a rose-splotched face

you were my bucket

embracing me

and the feelings

that needed caressing.

I am the house

that contains the bedroom

with busted pipes

running through it

and the water

that will find its way out

and the inhabitant

providing tender loving care.