None of us were very good with our hands
except to touch each other. I was the conduit
for them both. The last renovation
in the eighties. The multicoloured swirl
brick (he'd paid extra)
In the hollow of the bowl
just under the place where the road
humps, sat the last
Vancouver side special, its
galleried front always empty,
neglected lawn, a view
across the street. Where up here
we soared, mountains and inlet,
wink of highway, saw for miles.
At last I noticed the
of the bathroom window.
She'd done it herself.
By that time what had gone.
Carpets once white.
wood frame sofa. The colour
of the brick painted rosy.
She said it reminded her
of failure. This was the best thing
you ever made, I told her.
We were as far east
as you could go. I saw the city
in my window. Now I've returned
to the centre, special once more:
unique, one off, empty
What is the sum of 11 and 9:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.