I don’t know if he’d have been better
But I’ve always been sorry for Trotsky.
Meanwhile I build story-homes,
Apple houses, corral apartments
With signs out front—everyone welcome
And we mean it—shade elms,
Branches depending to and fro…
Up river the houses are bad,
No glass at the windows,
No gods in ambient sun.
What trick of mind shakes out carpets
Of misery, truly?
Here I create rooms with good light
And wicker chairs we can carry outdoors.
