16 June 2019

By Philip Kuepper

My boyhood house
was the ark
I was a passenger on
during the flood of years
I was growing into a man,

an ark wrecked
when the state came
paving over the years I lived there
with the winding sheet
of a highway,

my ark of memories wrecked
on the mountain of the state’s will,
the timbers of my memories
become splinters drying like bones
dug up, and scattered.

(24 April 2019)