Sorry, I have a poetry degree

Yes, it's true. I, Tricia Huckaby, got my degree in poetry. But you have to admit, rarely do I force any of you to check out what I write. Mostly because I don't write anything, har har har. Today you have the unfortunate luck of reading our blog on the one day when inspiration has struck and I've decided to try to write a poem. What??! I know. It's crazy. Gee Dad, all those thousands of dollars on college weren't a waste after all.

At Our House

Our metal roof cracks its knuckles

as shadows pull from the kids' windows

to the opposite side

It's 13:30 and the clouds begin

their afternoon meeting for prayers

Power's out and I'm spread out

Heat pulses from my sky blue cement

sometimes pleasant, sometimes too pushy

And I'm tired of this today

I feel the tink of dehydration

in my temples and at the top of my neck

Nothing is really wrong

but nothing works

You are still you and I am still me

and everything is the same

and everything is fine

and you are the same yesterday, today, and forever

But I'm tired, Lord, I'm tired

Tight and hot and lonely

sometimes altogether and it makes me

tired, Lord, I'm tired

Almost twelve months but not

twelve months and the cracks get bigger

and cement chunks and paint chips and toilet seats

and birds are scratching

and building a nest in the mats in the ceiling

They're stealing my quiet time

with their squawking and cheeping

Almost, but not even that much time, not even 

a year here in this house

And building feels like breaking

and rising seems like falling

and I have to remember that your wisdom often seems foolishness

in this world, and in this house

Time does his work perfectly well here

The over-achiever, and no one keeps him

and no one tips him

Gray gets grayer

White gets tanner

and termites trail their trails

and I'm getting thinner and fatter at the same time

But you are still you and I am still me and everything is fine

Sometimes a nap is best at nap time