Poem: Home.

I am an architect.

My work will never be through.

Always longing for something better.

Something bigger.

Or just something to do.

You weren’t part of my plan.

But now.

There is you.

I can set down my papers & troubles.
I can stand in the mess & the rubble.
I can see through half-started rooms
… through broken concrete …
… through windows with no panes …
… right into the street.

And my unfinished house is a home.

And my imperfect home is complete.