I met a man, doors half-off,
wind keening through rent masonry,
bitter vines embracing stone.
I took my bricks and patched him up,
killing weeds with lemonade,
righting doors with tender patience.
Never enough, this love I poured
into a shell held together
by damage, secure in regret.
My home has no white picket fence,
but with a lick of paint it shines.
I bury my damage out back.