There are thirty-four holes to fill in your home.
That could do.
All things gravitate their way.

I brought capsules
Filled with the smells of *****-turned earth,
And a sun-dried piece of carpet beneath my knees,
Lying between morning rows of an ***** garden
That touched my arms as I reached.

Holes begin to fill.

Then there is the touch of a cool coin in a pocket hole.
The sound of gravel crushed beneath tires
On a promised Beach Day.
The heat is piled on the hood, and mixes with the
Smoke-soaked upholstery.

Several holes to go.

I smear mud, made by man, and mixed with the
Scent of parental bedrooms,  work clothes,
A sweat-dried pillow, and an open window.

Holes are disappearing.

The nursery ceiling has been dimpled beneath hot-wired
Survival smells
You too will know.

Fewer now.

When you moved to another room,
I filled using your old books:
The Giving Tree and The Bone.
I used holidays, blankets, music and soothing cover stories.
Then I sanded above me,
Behind the mask of a mime.

One left.

So, I finished the job.
Smoothing and painting over the scabs.

No picking. No scratching.