My house, my fairy and on the table
palace, is one fried fish
of perishable spattered with burning
clapboards with scarlet sauce,
three rooms in all, a little dish
my gray wasps' nest of hominy grits
of chewed-up paper and four pink tissue-
glued with spit. paper roses.
My home, my love-nest, Also I have
is endowed hung on a hook,
with a veranda an old French horn
of wooden lace, repainted with
adorned with ferns aluminum paint.
planted in sponges, I play each year
and the front room in the parade
with red and green for José Marti.
left-over Christmas At night you’d think
decorations my house abandoned.
looped from the corners Come closer. You
to the middle can see and hear
above my little the writing-paper
center table lines of light
of woven wicker and the voices of
painted blue, my radio
and four blue chairs singing flamencos
and an affair in between
for the smallest baby the lottery numbers.
with a tray When I move
with ten big beads. I take these things,
Then on the walls not much more, from
two palm-leaf fans my shelter from
and a calendar the hurricane.
= David Hoak