Inhabit

The sugar houses tilt; through open windows,
catch the drift of wine-dark voices in the rain.

The clapboard shingles drum a faint tattoo
and fences sag beyond the driveway’s rough terrain.

A clothesline hung with linens might swing
the distance from one windowsill to the next.

But space is paramount and plaster does the trick;
and paint’s the cheapest blanket to prime the deck.

We’re told a home’s no longer a place to live
until you die: we’re told the savvy thing is flip

the property before it turns into a crooked house—
So take possession, but mind how all is still a tenantship.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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