The House We Built

My house is made of paint,
Much like any other
Eggshell-white walls, skimmed over;
At a glance, unimportant, undifferentiated
Nothing particular, not even a peel


My house is made of paint,
Ten-foot walls, smooth to the touch
Burdened in small places, a bump
Pressurized nails forced into ghost wood
Breaking through the primers and finishers


A house made of paint, it’s clean
You walk in, smell nothing but faint
Vacant traces of the wet, viscous fluid
And in that trace, memories of a beginning
And the anxieties of new memories to come


Cold winds help dry a wet house
A fortress of dreams, decay
Vanities unlike any other, in a house like this
So fresh, unmarred, for the most part
Because eggshell-white is so, simple




My house is made of paint,
Susceptible to peeling, from time to time
A chip here, a nick there
Writing on the wall, colors
A trip to the hardware store




My house is made of paint
Touch-ups are necessary, from time to time
Day to day, a fresh coating of eggshell-white
The nails spackled over
The nicks, chips, and peels, hidden once again


My house is made of paint,
Much like any other
At a glance: unimportant, undifferentiated
Nothing peculiar, except for the lack of peels
The memories lying under thousands of touch-ups