We mourn the broken things, chair legs wrenched from their seats, chipped plates, the threadbare clothes. We work the magic of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes. We save what we can, melt small pieces of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones for soup. Beating rugs against the house, we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie. I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog, listen for passing cars. All day we watch for the mail, some news from a distant place. – Natasha Tretheway
Housekeeping
Published by Beautiful Poet
Hello Everyone! My name is Marqus and I am 22 years old active duty. I grew up on the south with a pretty thick accent. I've been really big on poetry and writing fascinating literature work. Becoming a beautiful poet are like my dreams that dash and divided into a million stars. My view on life is that everything is like a big poetry book. You just have to make sense of it. View more posts
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