Stucco

Behind the faded green duplex

the spider sleeps under the leaf

Where I make volcanoes out of mud

like the ones in Italy

My dad is singing drunk songs,

pounding a wall full of patch-ups

The Chinese landlord smells like vinegar

and mumbles to himself fixing our broken faucet

with the wrong tools

Last week he repaired our cracked front door

by painting over it like Picasso

But he’s no Picasso

He’s a slumlord of a hovel

On American dirt with Italian volcanoes

that someday will drop this place

Just one match away and I’ll make history

And send him to bed mumbling forever

Pull the spark from my pocket

My cat drops the pigeon from his mouth

The spider wakes

The faucet still drips

The roaches bathe

And Picasso watches the smoke rise

From a backyard in Los Angeles