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University Life Café

falling house of cards

Poor Craftsmanship

Our house crumbled with the August monsoons,

Just folded into a lump of wistful ideas, vain hopes, and drywall,

Corroded by the rainwater pooling in the gutter—

Such a sour smell When you first began building it,

The foundation showed promise—

That thick slab of concrete

Congealing like a bowl of oatmeal

On the hilltop

I remember the stance of the wooden skeleton,

How it looked naked yet bold

And I thought it would hold

It was sweet, the way you

Beamed when I said it looked good,

But when it came to the walls,

You started falling apart.

They bent too much, the walls,

Like cheap silverware you could

Crumple with thumb and forefinger.

But you propped them up with blocks

And a slap of ticky-tack

And that was that. N

ow I want to know—

Could you feel the fragility of those boards?

Did you know that they’d warp and buckle With the slightest pressure?

And were you okay with that?

Because we lived in a house of cards,

And now I’m left picking up the shards

Of what was your poor craftsmanship.

Because we lived with straw skin that

Blew away with the wind

Leaving only our Thin bones

To prop us up.

And because what you carved

Was not a home

But a scar

On a perfectly good hill.

--kellybug