The paint is less shiny and more speckled
from the heat and sand and dusk and hurricanes
brush. The stilts stretch
their knuckles, flexed forgotten rafters
holding baby shoes and pink umbrellas
and condom wrappers. The Rambler,
named by my grandfather, coined by my brother,
The Shambler. The blue paint peeled down
from the under belly, long strips
of backwards fingernails barely pinned to the sidewall,
holding on for the next strong wind to knock us
and pickle what’s left of the wicker furniture. The carpet
warm from the inside gaze, the ceiling fan screwed in
by a large nail and the will of baby jesus. People die
from that, you know? It just goes flying off the wall and shreds
everything into little bits of like grain or something
if you’re not careful, but shut up and go to sleep,
if you snore really loud you won’t even hear
the death creeping up on you so just go
to sleep and it’ll be fine. The water line functions
in a mirror to the balding nature of our family dissension.
We pulled out the hair plugs just to watch them
wash up next to the oil from that BP spill
that no one talks about anymore. The house used to be a palace,
but now we just pump
our gas and mind our own business
because we’re good people who mind our own and keep
our own and ignore our own problems
because god damn aren’t everyone else’s so much more
interesting? We love each other the only way we know how,
through mashed potatoes and lullabies
and take that damn picture off your timeline
before grandma calls you a whore again.
The Shambler, the back deck still smells like piss from the sea
gulls. It’s difficult to tell if our bruises are signs
of strength or big ticket items to get you
out from the shore. Kick left, then right, then
would you look at that you’re swimming.
You’re swimming, you’re swimming, now dry off and eat
your mashed potatoes because I love you,
because I told you so,
because I know I told you I love you.