by J. Clark Hubbard
For my college roommates
“A house that doesn’t change is a dead house”–Reynolds Woodcock
We hang our dripping watercolor portraits on the walls
with nails and sticky tack, the chlorine staining the wood frame.
We brush up the crumbs from the garlic french bread
using a New Yorker as a dustpan.
I begin to prepare my first batch of gnocchi,
silver tines piercing each russet potato.
You glue the tongue of your shoe back,
store the dry goods under the sink,
and fold clothes to the music of Michael Cera.
We could write a book, all four of us,
and people would read it as they tanned
next to swimming pools, a beer
parked in a thin red koozie.
We can write when all this flour is washed away,
down the sink, always cold water.
Let’s brush our teeth with tap water,
then listen to Over the Rainbow
and sit on our stolen church pew.
J. Clark Hubbard is a writer and English teacher currently residing in Jackson, TN with his wife–Abbey–their cat, Guacamole, and ten thousand books. He intends to begin his MFA in Poetry at the University of Memphis in the fall of 2020 and is on twitter @jclarkhubbard. This is Clark’s first publication.