There are dishes
In empty sinks,

Small holes
On the basement ceiling,

Some drywall
Smashed near the carpet,

And clothes
Where chairs used to be –

As I’m staring
At edges left cracked,

Like tiny lines
Along trimming,

From days spent
Kicking these doorways
Over arguments
Distance has wrought.

“They never will
Fix this break
Even if their money
Held meaning
Beyond what work
Was more pointless
Than raising kids
Who will write.”

I tell my wife
Nothing lasts,

Watching spiders crawl
Beneath fixtures
Where lightbulbs dim
From the cobwebs
Inside that glass
Housing dust.

Our parents dreamed
Of success
Through the lens of lies
They were given –

Those glasses
Skewering vision
Long after its sight
Proved wrong.

Funny how fate
Was engaged
By circumstance
Chasing expression –

Two spouses
With raging devotion
Towards poetry
God would provide.

I believe
That’s how we relate –

Idling for days
Amid stories,

Catching movies
Or marathons binging
Between bedsheets
Finding escape.

We’ve realized
Together how art
Is the driving force
Of our marriage-

A connection
Fueled by obsession

Or childhoods
Fostered through fear.

It‘s okay
We can’t afford life,
For the peace we seek
Is internal –

Your mortgage
And baby left crying
Still scares us
Greater than debt.

But today,
I can have four walls-

Crumbling now
Over decades,

Neglected
Yet always inspired
Among old ghosts
They retain.

There is food
And plenty to ponder.

My pen will suffice
For this moment.

I have miracles
Falling around me.

Almost everything else
Provides less.

• J. Pigno