Picture of a House
There are several V’s in my daughter’s drawing.
One is a gable and the rest are birds
flying off into the spiky yellow
sunset she’s coloring in on the kitchen table.
From where I sit opposite her, writing
a check to the Hartford Federal Mortgage Corporation,
the birds are houses, and the house
is a large bird, a vertical triangle
from eaves to ridge, ready to take off
at the drop of a letter, rooftop flapping
over the treetops to Hartford, Connecticut…
I sign the check as she signs her picture
in the bottom right-hand corner, and the birds
migrate softy into my hands as she gives me
the house. For keeps. No strings attached
to the birds which could also be houses,
or the sun which could also be time
running out, going down like a diminishing
crayon stub still eking out, incredibly,
enough yellow to warm a house thirty years.
Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. His latest book of poems is Mostly (FutureCycle Press, 2021). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer's Almanac. paulhostovsky.com
The Ekphrastic Review
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