blueprints

[ a picture and a poem - day twenty ] 

my father was a drafter.
he drew up blueprints
for houses and archways
all around lisbon.
i imagine he drew them
with the same precision
he used to sketch his pigeons,
flying freely over
ornate victorian homes 
with shutters and 
flowered front yards,
houses that weren't 
our hoary home
with the chipping paint 
and the leaning porches.