The night rain bled through cracks
in the ceiling, we slunk to bed,
turning our backs to consider expenses,
what we had to relinquish to fix homelife.
Something had to be done --
I wearied of disposing crumbled tiles
in black sacks, my husband felt
he had cursed enough in front of burst pipes.
Little did we know that contemplating debris
would lead to a re-evaluation of errors,
an opening of doors in order
to strip down to bare necessities.
Since then television became a thing
of the past. Computers were stashed in boxes.
We exchanged wallpaper samples shyly,
mused about the prospects of granite.
We realized being both sensitive
to colors and agreed to do away
with the kitchen's antique brown tones
in favor of cat-licked yellow.
During the week he picked me up from work
so we could order Chinese together,
sometimes I passed by his office
to share coupons and sale brochures.
Every time we came home, cartonned meals
in hand, we fondly observed the workmen
around our house. Their hammers had every nuance
of tiny feet pattering on slick floor.