Rhapsody for Real Estate

                       By Ben Gunsberg

Reel me house to house,

our bank account ready for its root canal.

Let’s wander mid-century moderns,

poor cousins of Frank Lloyd Wright,

who flunked geometry because their flat-tops

failed to shed water.  We can pitch

a new roof, replace this wine-stained carpet

with hardwood. Maybe walnut,

maybe oak—either way, I’ll whack

those planks into place. You can cook,

I can clean.  Picture me on my knees

scrubbing toilets beyond innocent. Sweeping

closets. How pretty your dresses will look

chest to back, wife to wife. How sleek

my suits about to board first class

to nowhere. Let’s step outside

through sliding doors: O emerald square!

O butter-haired willow where a tire swing

drops like a hypnotist’s watch. We’re ready

to sway in hammocks, eavesdrop on katydids

as Jefferson did while framing our pursuit.

Let’s hold hands and float like Wendy

and Peter from backyard to half-bath

to master bath, unafraid of headache, allergy,

gas—our tiny tribes of medicine will colonize

these cabinets. My bride, our future

draws light and shadow through these blinds,

the yin and yang of dusk, and then the need

for bedside lamps, for we must read Tolstoy

aloud before sleep, before conception,

before track lights twist their little necks

to brighten our wild-haired infant.

I write this poem for him or her, for you, for we

should have a home where time hammers us

into place, all of us safe beside eternal

spice rack and knife block, apart from cracked

cement and crippled hula hoop, a home

where we see ourselves reflected in polished granite

countertops, midnight black, eyes within the rock.

Or, if not a home, at least this poem where we walk

barefoot across hardwood, whispering walnut, walnut, walnut.