The Mercy of the No

I found the old listing tucked in the back

of the book with the stained and floury spine.

Three bedrooms, a porch with a sagging crack,

and a yard we were sure would eventually be mine.

I remember the night I spent on the kitchen floor

begging a God I don't know for a bank’s good word.

I wanted that mortgage, that key, that heavy front door,

and I felt like a failure when no one actually heard.

The rejection came in a thin, white envelope.

You walked out a month later, taking the car.

I thought I was drowning, losing the rope,

looking for a light in a sky without a single star.

But I passed that house on a bus just yesterday.

The roof is caved in and the gate has a rusted lock.

A 'Danger' sign hangs where we wanted to play,

and the porch has been swallowed by the weeds and the rock.

I’m glad for the silence that met me that night.

Some doors are stayed shut by a terrifying grace.

I’m standing in a kitchen that finally feels right,

without a ghost or a mortgage or your hollow face.