Just the wooden skeletal outline of something not yet there.

IN THE FRAMEWORK OF AN EMPTY HOUSE BY HELEN CAREY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 12

With no walls no moldings no outlines

of the parts of a home, no reason to separate

and label rooms and parts and pieces of things

and isolate them all from each other, not yet.

No railings on the stairs leading up to

the second floor, nothing to hold on to

while we walked up with the gingerly

drowsy steps of cautious sleeplessness,

just the wooden skeletal outline of

something not yet there.

Yet it felt comfortable and we sat

down on the floor covered in sawdust

and ash and crumbs left over from the

workers who would be back again in

three hours and we blew smoke out into

the hazy pre-morning dawn that wasn’t yet

blocked out by curtains and frills and shades

and we looked out the door that no family

had yet slammed in anger or creaked open

slowly so as not to wake anyone

at an hour such as this.