Rooftop Triangle

A square. A triangle.

Two window squares. A door,

just a stick. And the sun,

yellow with straight, mad rays,

in the corner, always.

My friend's kid drew it.

Taped it to the fridge,

where bills pile up, where schedules

fight for space. This perfect,

simple idea of a place.

My own place, complex lines,

a mortgage deep as a well.

Leaky faucet, the endless hum

of the fridge, not holding a sun,

just a list of things I have to sell.

The chimney on the drawing,

lopsided, one curl of smoke

escaping, like a single breath.

I wish my life had such clear edges,

a roof that just sat right.