He buys a plot of land where a house once stood
facing his own Painted Lady. He always wanted
to plant vegetables. Below ground, what’s left:
remains, buried in the basement. Someone decided
taking it apart, piece by piece, wasn’t worth the cost.
Instead, bulldozers caved the parlor, collapsed the library.
Sunken floors becoming ceilings. Now, grass creeps over the roof.
My friend writes the Blues—songs for people hardened,
broken—but he won’t sing these once vaulted rooms
filling with dirt, not about parquetry turning to mulch.
No songs, he insists, for the elaborate mantel’s decomposing,
the staircase rotting in on itself. He’ll just plant tomatoes,
and arugula strong enough my eyes will water,
but not—he’ll mutter—from the ruin of it all.