In this most perfect little house by Connor Deeks

In this most perfect little house by Connor Deeks

 

When you see this most perfect little house,

With four boys running through without regard,

You’ll find a mother without a loving spouse,

Making a dinner most likely chard.

 

She worked all day but must work a bit more,

For these four boys must eat or it means war,

Empty stomachs means bedtime is a chore,

Feed them, bathe them, then please god make them snore.

 

How did life end up this way in this house?

It was once a safe haven from the world,

Now a battleground, a shelter espoused,

Two floors of Nerf-gun arsenal unfurled.

 

There is no money for her to enjoy,

The boys need books, markers, crayons and more,

She imagines a day without the boys,

A somewhere warm where she doesn’t abhor.

 

It used to be filled with things she cherished,

A palace with that wonderful husband,

The future was bright and not nightmarish,

Remember the kitchen, the new white oven?

 

Everything lay is disarray, broken,

The new white oven now chipped and sickly,

That bastard left for some young, rich token,

She feels so alone feeling age fifty.

 

People remind her to cherish her boys,

To love them even though they are too much,

To love her house even though it’s destroyed,

“These boys grow up so fast…” and such and such.

 

But none of that matters to her anymore,

The fierce flame of her life completely dowsed,

Grabbing old forks from a broken drawer,

Living in this most perfect little house

 

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This Most Perfect Hill

This Most Perfect Hill

By Lisa Jarnot b. 1967 Lisa Jarnot

On this most perfect hill

with these most perfect dogs

are these most perfect people

and this most perfect fog

In this most perfect fog

that is the middle of the sea

inside the perfect middle of

the things inside that swing

In this most perfect rhyme

that takes up what it sees,

with perfect shelter from the

rain as perfect as can be,

In this most perfect day

at the apex of the sun

runs this most perfect

frog song that is roiling

from the mud

In these most perfect habits

of the waving of the trees,

through this imperfect language

rides a perfect brilliancy.