Housewhose basement flooded

            duringevery rowdy rain.  House

whosestaircase creaked

                        likethe knees of the retired farmer

Iimagined built it.  My familyrented it

            acentury after he could’ve lived,

            ambulancegarage adjacent,

sirensthat breeched our sleep.

                        Mostmy parents’ fights

happenedin the morning, coffee maker prattling

            whilebirds pecked yard for food.

Withsister and friends, I dragged

dad’sashtray Kools, pulls

                        bankedin the jagged snub before butt.

Acrony borrowed my bedroom

            tobumble with Danielle Combs, Magnavox

liltingdubbed R&B.

                        Somenights, by myself, I climbed

                        outa window to sit

onmoss-blotched roof,

            meldmy eyes to sky.

Whoeverowns this house

                        hastorn it down.  A removal crew

hasn’tyet trucked up.

Blocksof baked clay, mortar

                        instray, gray strands, plaster

ironballedto flour, disconnected

            intestineof pipes.

Youshould do like me, lift

                        anintact brick,

                                                letit chalk your palm maroon,

letit convey the weight it takes

            tocog a wall, to tolerate

110Ohio winters, let alone

                        thesounds and the heat

eachtenant pressed against it.

Completepity

yourdelicate skin forbids you

fromthe June sun strumming

everyatom in this public park.

Sympathyfor your keen

allergies,frenzied by the fine

greenpowder our children

kickairborne, running

andplay-screaming through clover.

Ourgravest laments extend

towardyour diabetes, dismissing

thisstocky slice of Sweet Potato Pie,

auntie-baked(unwritten recipe

onlyfamily’s allowed to learn).