In the place that you land you have to live.
I demolish my house and build it back
stronger. Muscle, bone, blood, and skin
pull me together like a bouquet. I set myself
in front of myself and think good work.
I make myself a gin. I come undone.
Checking if the landline works,
I end up calling you. It works.
I can see where you live from my doorstep, neighbor.
A small place, surrounded by others just like it.
You hate it. All you ever want is to come over
and touch the parts that make me different
than you. The flowers burning in the kitchen sink
say something about the way we love to smolder.
Welcome inside for the grand tour.
Here is my foundation. Here is my paint.
Rob Engle is a journalist, photographer and writer who splits his time between Pennsylvania, West Virginia and New York. He is a soon-to-be alumnus of Marshall University and his creative work has appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, Profane, The Altar Collective, and Texas Poetry Review.