The foundation, we dug it by moonlight spooning when shovels were scarce, working from plans sketched in sand at low tide, layout recalled from a dream someone had in which the other tended bar, a dive with a fresco so inviting our dreamer stepped into it and beckoned the barkeep to distraction, to abandon, to drift off humming a work song, one we still like to sing from scaffold, balanced on beams, writing our grandchildren’s names in wet cement. Rooms of small betrayals best forgotten, foyers of words we can’t take back bricked up and hung with samplers of forgiveness, load bearing walls of faith that defy formulae, infinite hallways of hope, the door to nowhere that never fails to amuse when we need to laugh to keep from crying. There’s a window stuck, won’t you take a look? I’ll see to that shingle before it rains. Work, it’s never done, walls that won’t paint themselves, our labor of love.