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.