7h - for annette clancy

7H

I draw the plans in hope and 7H pencil
on the back of a flattened cigarette packet
(smoking may harm your unborn baby).
They are sumptuous,
stunning,
mine.

They are, however, but a pale shadow
of my house of dreams.
My imagination mansion.
Diamonds and mahogany,
marble in majesty,
but still tastefully done.

I have the plans transferred
onto vellum with gold leaf letters
from the finest oriental calligrapher
stolen money can buy.
The authorities approve my wishes
with only minimal bribing required.

The builders are engaged at
sufficiently exorbitant rates
to appease my ego,
and I plant the opal foundation stone
on the first day of work
to rapturous applause from hired lackeys.

Slowly the house of my dreams
rises from the ground
like the geological event it is;
then burrows under the earth,
a regal mole blind
to its own beauty.

Three months in, there is a stock market correction.
I stand, corrected, humiliated, broke.
The house is half-done and alone.
A perfect ruin already.
I burn the plans
and float away on the smoke.

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