My House

A blank piece of notebook paper—
creased and shoe scuffed,
striped-old with years like a dogwood—
contains the promise, a narrative
of a young married couple who wants kids and honesty.

But I cannot find the words to describe
the fogged window panes,
the piebald-brown linoleum,
the jagged-teethed crown molding,
the mountain fire place,
the dust bunnies behind the furniture,
the dog that pisses on the floor,
the kid that will one day play in the clothes his mom picked out for him.

There are no words to live that promise, to be that narrative.