The house bears down on him from up the hill.
He hunkers, a distant moon, uneasy
on the front porch of his hollow cabin,
not looking up at the house, not the
rough-hewn board and batten siding,
not the field rock fireplace he laid
stone by chosen stone,
not the perfect corner line of the
two-story chimney, broken
by one deliberately offset stone,
He used to watch the house,
but sometimes his old life would pour
out of the custom window casings,
flood down the hill, drown him:
macaroni art projects, mother’s prize tulips,
tiny giggling hands popping his puffed up cheeks,
go fish and crazy eights, perfect golden
cornbread cakes in cast iron skillets.
He rummages around in the chest freezer gone rusty from
a life on the porch. He finds the chokecherry pie Loretta
dropped by on Tuesday and sets it out to thaw for dinner.