Build-a House

I built myself a house 
to home my lonely bones,
a house on a noisy-silent street
opening to a quiet sky
in colors my wife loves—
mostly a white
so transparently clear
it absorbs shadows
from dark yesterdays
and sick brown parts
chemically cured.

I built myself
a house that
understands my lousy Spanish
and knows my gringo 
accent needs subtitles. 

I built myself a house 
with big windows
that illuminates
everything 
like a single poem 
about the two of us
living a simple day of 
a bright, beautiful life.

I built us a house 
founded 
not on cement
but the strong muscle
of our 
enduring experience 
that separate us 
from the chaos 
outside. 

I built us a house
filled with the 
sepia of things; 
a house 
where our
illuminated faces
reveal themselves
to the 
familiar unknown.