His fingers tore through their handiwork, mouth opened: "Ah, just there,"
a round yellow pearl beneath his bootheel and then key in lock, opened.
II. Having been to the roof, he tells me there are sparrows nesting in the attic
and counts the obituaries he's read since last winter, "She was only fifty-two.
How many years do I have left?" His eyes search heaps of grey insulation.
III. Under the rotting garage, tree roots have slithered and heaved their way upward.
Squirrels are tunneling in under the eaves. "They'll get in eventually," he laments,
recounting.
IV. The basement is dry and full of empty corners, propped up pine, a century's
carvings, and a rodent's beginnings of electrical fires to come. In the backyard
someone has placed clusters of smooth golden stones, and the plants grow.
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