The Blueprint

The radiator bangs like a ghost with a grudge,

and the windowpane won't give a fractional nudge.

I’m taped to the mailboxes, looking at art,

a four-year-old’s vision of playing the part.

A box with a triangle hat on the top,

where the worries of winter are legally forced to stop.

The chimney is puffing a scribble of lead,

while everyone's safe in a primary bed.

But the horizon is what makes me lose my own place,

one yellow line drawn with a violent grace.

A border so sharp that it cuts through the page,

locking the house in a bright, waxen cage.