The house

                                                                                     Kat Mortensen©2012 



he says he will build a house facing the morning sun, 
wide clear windows framing the fields of yellow 

he will shade the high ceiling in blue cloudless sky,      
color the rooms with summer and frangipani petals   

plant mango trees and vegetables at the back yard,
so I can hear the squirrels racing around the bend   

as we talk, he caresses his prized rooster’s plumage,
crooning words of devotion I half listen to as I rush

dressing up to go to work, not wanting to miss my
subway and bus tram, squeezed like sardines in a can

which I eat when I ran out of dollars to send to him, 
and rest of my family, all perched upon my back as I

scrape my knees, cleaning floors and washrooms 
in the city of lights and marble, sweeping dust

covering the letters I read each week, all asking me for
dollars dotted with promises not to wager anymore, still   

I call every Sunday to tell them of the butterflies and  
grasshoppers I catch, and tulips I see on my way to work    

everyday for the last 10 years, and my now grown up daughter
gets excited of my "adventures" in another country, half a world away     

I fold my cheque in the mail envelope and walk back to small rented room,  
Like a bloodied cock fighter that I am,

dreaming to go home
to the house he said he will build for me 

Process notes:   I originally had this idea when I wrote it for Flash Fiction 55 for the G-man - How far to walk.   I thought of expanding the story based on a migrant worker's life.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Photograpy by Kat Mortesan
and D'verse Poets Pub:   OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday at 3pm EST