Standardized

The flyer is pinned to the cork by the door,

above the mud tracked across the tile floor.

It’s a house with four windows, a chimney of soot,

planted down deep with a crayon-drawn root.

That black line of wax is a chimney, I guess,

a heavy-handed mark of a childhood success.

The door is a rectangle, perfectly straight,

with no sign of mold or a hinge-broken gate.

I look at my walls where the plaster is thin,

and the smell of the hallway keeps leaking on in.

It’s easy to build when you’re five years old,

before the roof leaks and the rooms get this cold.