Cracks in the Plaster

There's one above my head,
stretching from walnut door frame
to bare bulb. It bows from
Missouri rain
long since evaporated.
	Houses aren't built like this anymore.
	Lath and plaster takes too much effort.
	Drywall is cheap. Time-efficient.
Another crack festers
a floor below
in my father's study.
"Too much roughhousing."	Nails are used to break the joints.
	It curbs the chance
	of future rifts.
	Preemptive separation.
The ceiling in the spare room
used to have a crack.
Before it collapsed.
	This house is not built for my father.
	Too many parts to fix
	to fit into his schedule.
	He is not a patient man.
I cut myself
tiptoeing around
pieces of plaster.
No one was around
to clean up the mess.
	I tried to fix the one above my head
	once, but I had the wrong tools.
	I stirred up 21 year old spackle
	instead of reinforced fiberglass tape.
	Now the ceiling is just a patchwork
	of “not good enough”.
I wait for the day
pressure shifts
and I collapse under the weight
of a decaying, bungalow-styled
family.