The house’s pink skin flakes with age.
A few shingles look like chipped teeth.
A yard of hard red sand clutching clumps of weeds
and a few blades of stubborn yellow grass.
A smack of light bruises the Mrs. cheeks
as her eyes surf the dingy darkness
through an opened kitchen window
where the moon rested
after hiking the wide trail of sky.
That’s easier than watching the gray Sedan
roll backwards from the graveled drive.
She and the Mr. started lumbering backwards
after the lay-off, after the bottle, after her.
His lone headlights are long gashes in the night.
The fatigue of rolling for miles
makes him think when
if he returns maybe he will replace the shingles, water the yard
and repair what was broken between them.