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Henry Hughes: AFTER WE LOST THE HOUSE,

March 8, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

the deck I built, your mother’s plantings,

blossoms and birds carved 

into closet doors for the room 

you were gonna paint purple.  

It all went red on my half-time,

then Mom got sick and the car died.

 

Winter gnawed through that drafty trailer 

and the drunk-ruckus apartment on Ninth,

until I got the other job and this place, 

where you can walk to school 

and help Mom sow a small garden. 

 

The landlord doesn’t want a handyman, just a check 

every month.  But at night, in the garage 

over a makeshift bench, I build birdhouses—

top-grade plywood, stainless steel screws, 

tin-faced nesting holes

nothing’ll chew through.

Filed Under: Issue 101, Poetry, Poetry 101 Tagged With: Henry Hughes

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