Three Story House

 

Three Story House

We muscled the heavy, squinted the fine, 
made decisions you can’t design on paper 
but only with fingers in the moment.

Old Walt coughing, Marlboro dangling, 
hand-rubbed the wainscot to a rosy glow.
His final job. Lungs.

Paul the preacher 
moonlighting as plumber
installed the water heater badly
distracted by divorce, a repossessed car,
now preaches on sidewalks 
outside the bars.

Frank the tile setter with eleven children
in a three-room shack received messages 
from space aliens through his penis, 
he told me. Level and true, they said, 
set your lines level and true. 
His quiet wife simply smiled, 
home-schooled every child.

Years later, spirits still here. 
Fingermarks. Marlboro ashes 
in wainscot oil. Hot water, a blessing. 
Frank’s tiles set level and true 
where we shower each day 
with pores open, naked. 

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig  — thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen 

Photo is of my own house, 1979. Look closely and you’ll see three workers. 

Hear me:

@joecottonwood