In this house I must keep fighting with the porch door,
They close all throughout this house but don’t latch.
The only way to win is to slam it hard
And wiggle the handle wildly.
He wakes from the other room,
It’s past noon
And is yelling at the sound.
We aren’t sleeping well
Too much, too little, too wrought with nightmares.
The doors in the house have glass nobs
And indiscernible metal that might have one been brass.
From room to room they differ
They come apart and smash to the floor
Leaving you stranded on the other side.
The sound makes him angry.
The wood is gouged but beautiful
Even with ramen stains in the kitchen,
and misled paint in the bathroom, In the living room
There’s acid burn from that time with the lime and the Samurai sword.
These doors and this house have grown completely off kilter.
But above almost every door is a shim
A “dziadzio” fix and we find them all over the house,
Places that with time and creativity – he supported
The next three generations that have lived and live in this house.