The Fixer-Upper

They bought a house
too soon
in a neglected part of town.
It was full of odd color choices:
sea-green walls
and black carpeting in the kitchen.

They had a roommate, a lanky
man who sat in the yard, smoking
when he wasn’t working
at the auto-body shop,
repairing heating and cooling
systems. He had a bedroom

on the first floor, but I couldn’t
imagine him sleeping. He always
had dark circles
beneath his eyes,
reflections of the moon
that captured attention.

He showed me
the photos of his family on the fridge,
standing before the backdrop
of a dull brick building.
His mother had permed
her blond hair and her dress’s

vertical stripes made her look taller.
His brother was in her arms,
blanket hanging down,
and his sister balanced on one foot
like a flamingo
in her neon-pink skirt.

In another photo they were
beneath the lilac tree in the botanical gardens.
Their gazes were poised forward.
He told me there was a river
and a statue built
in the spirit of a mother.