Those Dream Houses

When you dream of houses—of thick-walled

stucco bungalows skulking across Sonoma,

the gingerbread and bric-a-brac fantasies

of New England, or cold French villas

beside greying seas—you should

dream, too, of bleached linoleum, unpolished

spoons, of dry tangerines in wire baskets,

the velvet dust of shelves and thumb-licked

books, the strange machinery

of basements.

When you walk in dreamt hallways,

between undiscovered rooms where

the etched light of dim lamps picks rust

off iron bedsteads and lingers

over the many-fingered clocks,

you should dream as well of the closets—

filled, as they are, with feathers

and peeling sequins, hatboxes,

failed prom dresses, the detritus

of mousey sweaters, cedar shavings.

And when the dreaming takes you

to hopeless chests never meant

for a bride—where soft-edged cards

of sewing needles and a grandmotherly

jar of mixed buttons horde their

dreams of usefulness—then,

and only then, will you understand

the sharp wit of broken windows,

and the clean-swept floors

of an unfurnished mind.

This poem first appeared in  Full of Crow, June 2009.