There’s a house

a half an hour south

of town,

built of stones

my father hauled

from down the road

in his old Ford

Fairlane. He built it for

my mother when she asked.

A rare man sees

the monument to his

life rise

before his

death. A rare man sees

his own


By this measure, then,

he was a lucky man.

Not so

my mother, who

was left behind

to tend

that carefully

constructed tomb,

to keep it neat—in case,

just now, he might

be coming home.