Paper on Steel

I reached for ice, my sleeve went past,

a corner lifted, holding fast

by just a thread of brittle tape,

a lopsided house, no grand escape.

It's purple, crayon-thick and bright,

a child's idea of wrong and right.

Years on this door, through cold and heat,

its edges curled, almost complete

with grime. The tape, a yellow stain,

holds up a dream through sun and rain

of kitchen light. I press it down,

a tiny house in this big town.

It won't stick long, the glue is spent,

a small, sweet history, heaven-sent.

Soon it will fall, a quiet fall,

a memory pinned against the wall.