Katrina \r\nA house is growing on my lawn.\r\nHow it got there, did it catch the bus or the ferry\r\nOr lumber up the shell path that crests the levee top...\r\nOh yes. I remember it now. It lived a few blocks away\r\nOne of the dream houses that once bespangled this deserted road.\r\n\r\nMy own roof has sprouted dead branches\r\nIts gutters gorged with the stubble of pine needles\r\nOn my driveway the tide has precipitated colors\r\n Paintings that have never adorned my walls\r\nNear the kitchen door loiters \r\n A sullen beer keg I have not emptied.\r\n\r\nEverywhere, ground, street, asphalt, cement, pool\r\nShards of baked sediment overcake\r\nLike remnants of a shattered pot kicked by a careless mule.\r\n\r\nThis was a house of dreams. Not towering uplifting dreams -\r\nThe ordinary type that buzz the ear of a sleeper in a slow rocking chair\r\nRocking away the days, rocking down the hours\r\nBreathing contentment into unremarkable\r\nBetter than flight, because flight is hardly possible.\r\n