I’m making wind chimes from his wine bottles,
To steal a song from his emptied promises,
While I pray to make a home, a life
From the bony pig between the couch cushions.
I try to Spackle the broken plaster,
And hide the truth behind a dusting of Maybelline shade 04.
But Spackle can’t plug the holes
In this white washed façade of what was supposed to be.
That wall that damns my tears.
It just keeps cracking.
A bottle crashes, by my own hand for once,
Against the pink ceramic of the pig, shattering,
Like the last hope of that elusive dream.
My warm hands trembling, I grasp the strong bright coins
Reflecting so many futures, possibilities
Finally within my grasp.
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