Call Anyplace Home

My small hands put each brick, scribbled on by tar, worn by constant rain, soft from dampness, in place. The weeds I photograph, and the leaves in their perfect and random arrangements on the sidewalks, landscape the home I build. The mold and rust, the chipping paint and crumbled edges, the remains of a structure that was abandoned for something else—these are my materials; they are the vestiges of a city before an exodus. I am returning to the instar I was not ready to leave. I am building another to hang on a wall, on a page, like a poem.