Houses aren’t solid,
like I drew them as a child:
squares of thick, dumb lines,
with rectangles and a triangle hat
beside a lollipop tree
with a gaping black oval in the trunk
for the bird to sit in
straining toward the light of a quarter-arc sun with stubby rays.

Real houses have holes,
I discovered, not just as an adult,
but recently. They breathe. They’re boxes,
but with drains in the basement,
cables that snake through siding
to deliver endless flickering and sound,
and dryer vents that exhale mountain fresh
second-hand fumes
onto an unsuspecting neighborhood.

And there are spaces
between walls
that press my child’s fear like a vise.
And there are places under the carpet
that groan, weary from so much rocking.