Build Your Dream Home Here Poem by David Roderick

First the towers
fell, then the Dow. A few years later,
while she was still recovering
from the blind fumbling accounts
of people crushed to dust—
her nights chocked with emergencies,
smoke, the newsfeed, the taped
and sniffed envelopes, the falling—
that's when they'd built the place,
a roomy number bricked back
from the corner. A bank offered
low interest, veterans no down.
In every closet they'd make love.
They'd space out bushes, lay toast
and coffee on the porch.
It worked
for a while, their screened-in story,
where a half-deflated soccer ball
wedged the door. Drunk on lilac,
they cheered whenever a bee seemed
to veer off course.
Now boxes packed
with their belongings cover the lawn.
She checks the buttons on her blouse
and worries about her husband's
smoking. Will the lilacs survive?
Will their mild, wilting odor still lure
the bees? In some parts of the world,
the wood of the lilac is carved
into knife handles or flutes. Līlek
from the Arabic, meaning "slightly blue."