i put the broken shingles

that fell off my rib cage

in your front yard

 

you took them out back

and glued them onto

a cardboard box you called

“an escape”

 

youd sit in there

and mumble for hours

about how the world

is wasting your time

 

and even though you knew

without nails and a hammer

it would diminish quickly,

you left me in the snow for months

 

and nevertheless, you returned

with paint and flowers to make this place

feel homey again. but paint chips,

and flowers die and as will we

 

with longing in our chests,

and the cynical remains

of yet again, another

broken home.