the workmen appeared in
khaki pants and tee shirts
they began banging
right on schedule
like a video game they conjured up
large cubes of metal on every surface
the sidewalk door was removed
from its hinges it leaned
woozily against the microwave
you had to sashay past it to
flip the laundry
most families would leave
but we have instead
doubled down
we are getting up extra early
napping and gaming and listening in
horrified fascination to
the violence being done to our
house
the bricks squealing in resistance
as hammer drills grind them away
they’ve been here a hundred years
of course they don’t want to
yield to this
savage new technology
naturally it is
pouring rain
so there is a dot matrix
of muddy footprints from the denuded doorframe to the
cavernous hole that once held our
fire hazard of a vintage furnace
i understand that these expenses are
necessary and i get that they add value
to our home and
all the same
like the new roof several years ago
there’s no thrill of pleasure in signing an
old fashioned paper check
at the work crew’s closing time which
signals the beginning of
mopping time
all those footprints won’t erase themselves
i am aware
of the privilege that has stopped up the
pitter patter of rain inside my clothes closet
the privilege that will hopefully keep my children from
burning up in a house fire
but many days i wish
we lived on a small
boat
with nothing but
books and guitars
and a few
blank notebooks
and at night the waves
would rock us to
sleep
in our gauzy hammocks
float us toward simpler
warm and watery
dreams