He built a house while he waited for her marriage to fail.
There was the house. The marriage wasn't.
A gift of a tiny glass rose, years ago.
She drove away watching him watching her drive away.
He kissed her before the front door,
Perhaps to measure the difference once inside.
He bothered her so much she never forgot him.
Now the furnace is blazing and she sits at the table,
Crossing her legs, wringing her hands.
She had given the softer rose once, and he never forgot her.
His lumber, his glass, his furniture
Scraps and shards in the blaze. Herself, burning. Herself
Those moments between fires,
At the kitchen table cackling, forgetting.