Heir

The house of my life Is cracked and rotted. The floors are warped, And all of my broken windows Welcome rain. But from the rubble, I’ll piece out a coat, Made from my very best scraps and shards. Here’s a patch of rug from Tibet And the cobweb strands of a once regal drape. Cupped like an egg in a frothy current of days, You, my bird, my bud, my tuft of fuzz and light, Inherit this coat of broken things, Something more meager than a manger, But sewed from all the love wrung From a wasted life.