It backs the Agua Fria Freeway,
a rolled newspaper still in the drive.
Why didn’t I notice the signs?
There’s a crack in an upstairs window;
white roses in the yard
bend and droop like once proud nuns
now turned brown in the sun.
I remember when they were full sails,
taut and quivering at a busy harbor—
but this
matches my own heart for rent,
where boats come, but mostly go,
sitting like an empty womb,
a house for all
I wish I’d given you.
