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.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Stage Directions
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song