old houses hold on. the first day i saw this house

i knew it was my home, knew its many windows.

its east facing door was the first thing i painted.

upstairs, early on, we removed that beige broadloom

peculiar to quick flips. such old wood in some rooms

refinished, but under the carpet, a ruin, old battleship

grey paint, chunks of o.s.b. roughed in in patches

and in one bedroom corner a devastated, glorious

campfire-sized hole charred out of the floor. underlay

and carpet had sufficed to keep its secret. who walks

in corners? besides the ghosts and stale currents

that made the long hallway a neck-chilling passage

even before the neighbour’s cat died piteously, despite

our last-ditch hail-mary we’ll take her off your hands

they had seven kids, no vet money anyway. we made her

comfortable, cleaned and smoothed her fur, she died

damply, in that corner. i could see the mark

for years. but now, the man of the house has opened

the hidden bend, released the stagnant chi, the hall

bright and peaceful  lay til today, finally it was time

to tile that floor, smooth the spirit.

the wood has had enough time to breathe, purrs

gently as i knuckle, forearm, shin and step

each tile spread like a vinyl balm upon the scars

we’ve honoured and loved. there are really

no boring jobs.