My Father’s House

A Poem by M. Lapin

My father lives in a poverty of mission
losing his gasp on possibility with simple tools,
ladders of any size.
My father does not do light bulbs,
everything sanctioned for electricians, handymen, people who understand the working of hands.
My father lives in the basement of a great library of a house
water birds and snakes, lizards and deer, frogs and mud puppies out back–
He is not afraid of things designed by nature.

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