no love here

jokingly I called her house
the no fun zone.
a place of work,
a small eastern bloc
country,
grey, surrounded by
barbed wire and fence.
into my hands would go
a shovel.
a bag of dirt or stones.
I listened
to what the birds were
saying
struggling on the feeder
for small bits
of seed.
I stared up at the tall
trees that whistled
in the wind.
I hammered nails, turned screws,
painted doors,
gathered fallen leaves
for the fire,
I then rested in my
own arms
at the end of another
hard day.