The Weight of the Word

The drawing has been behind the radiator

long enough for the edges to curl and turn black.

It’s a sketch of a floorplan I promised for later,

a ladder, a lookout, a place to look back.

But the landlord has eyes like a hawk on the fence

and the lumber is stacked in a pile of rot.

I look at the scrap wood, the lack of expense,

and the rusty, stripped screw in the middle of the plot.

I told you we’d build it when the weather got fair.

Now the mud is hardening into a crust.

I’m standing out here in the cold morning air

with a handful of promises turning to dust.