Monday, March 4, 2013

Another Poem About My Wife

If a goon comes to my door
to throw me on the street
because I must pay for
those toiling years of love:
my careful repair,
paint for the sun,
landscaping stones,
of making my home more beautiful,
doing things for others as you would
have them done for you,

the gift I felt for my gift
was immeasurable.
So to see my landlord
pull up all the stones,
blacken down the walls,
take back
the damaged mind
he'd left behind,
there must be something more that I still owe.

And if those goons do show
my son says it's all cool,
the luckless on the streets
in cardboard homes
have Obama phones.