This House
By Mark Marony
This house has stood
since horses labored
trolley cars
through this City of Queens.
Metal smithed shoes
and wooden wheels
clip clop and clicking
along
the quarried roads.
The hands of aging artisans
and the backs of teenage boys
lay these streets
with cobblestone,
two feet and
seventy years below
the calloused black
that now
unfolds like a scaly carpet
beyond our hue-filled yard of
hydrangea and hyacinth and
flowers from bulbs
that were planted before
my father’s birth.
By Mark Marony
This house has stood
since horses labored
trolley cars
through this City of Queens.
Metal smithed shoes
and wooden wheels
clip clop and clicking
along
the quarried roads.
The hands of aging artisans
and the backs of teenage boys
lay these streets
with cobblestone,
two feet and
seventy years below
the calloused black
that now
unfolds like a scaly carpet
beyond our hue-filled yard of
hydrangea and hyacinth and
flowers from bulbs
that were planted before
my father’s birth.
New Hampshire Writers Poetry
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