It’s hard to find an even house:
foundations settle at creation,
doors will sag from slamming,
tiles will chip from drop pots,
careless feet scuffing along,
days when they sweat and cry,
bricks will crack, driveways too—
settling into a haunting beauty,
everything tilts differently,
microscopically altered
from your last place.
Yet, you wonder
if the windows
will stick in winter,
stay open in summer .
You wonder where will
the dust angels hide,
what room can you
see the stars clearly.
The screened in porch,
you notice, let’s
in too much sun.
You feel its heat
on your arm
during the tour.
Will it hold your gravity,
if it can’t hold its own?
The air conditioning
shrieks like a ghost.
You hear squirrels
dancing in the attic,
the ones that will
keep your dog
barking all night.
You look for the line
where the water stopped.
The angst settles in you
like night fog, like a lifetime
of settling that sucks you in,
The heavy rain comes
in amounts that
can’t be bailed fast enough.
The house is a lake.
The lake is inside you,
and in the collapse
of the roof, you see the sky.
The house starts floating away
and you disappear inside it.
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