Heir

The house of my life Is rotted and cracked. The floorboards are warped, And all of my broken windows Welcome wind. But from the rubble, I’ll piece out a coat, Made from my very best pieces and shards. Patches of carpets that came from Tibet, And the spiderweb 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 sewn from all the love wrung From a wasted life.