It was love at first sight.
Immodest, passionate, soul mates.
It was meant to happen.
The house embraced, whispered,
opened its soul.
So much could be done!
The view was north,
toward the pole star.
The street quiet with gardens.
I have made friends like that.
Fallen in love.
The taste of a perfect orange.
Eyes propositioning eyes.
So a house is sold.
Walking through the rooms
and knowing,
this is how we will come together,
painting and polishing,
burning incense,
having dinner.
And the papers are signed.
The closing, celebrated with a toast.
To rafters aged by rain,
roof weathered with sun.
Breath of honeysuckle on the fence,
then,
with strange foreboding,
doubt rising like a shriek,
the thought,
what have I done?!
In the cold light of dawn,
the poor house exposes
its wounded electric,
broken panes,
the cancer of termites in the walls,
the abuse of floors,
its face of damaged stone,
the cost restoring what time had done.
And buyer, poor buyer,
lost lover in pain,
buyer’s remorse with a bushel of chains,
praying,
love will save in the end
his dream.