Red dust cakes everything, even dreams.
A tiny house built from the same mud as 
the parent's house it stands in front of- 
scraps from the same plastic sheeting,
the same torn cloth and the same twigs.

They do not imagine much when they play.
The house will last until the end of the day.
His sister and he are not the lord and lady
of this house, and when it fades with the sun
he'll put on his wire frames and be a white man.