Title:
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 wood surround 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 hands.
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 9 and 6:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.