At some point my house said, “To hell
with it,” and decided cracking the plaster,
sloping the floors, and rotting the rails
off the porch was preferable to a life upright
on its frame.
I try to coax it back into shape,
refinish floors, repair and paint, but my house
smiles, shakes its head, and pops a seal
on the outside faucet – again.
Then one morning, I pull on my pants,
notice they’re tighter than usual,
see my shirt buttons tug just a bit,
but fry two eggs in butter anyway.
The house creaks. “Shut up,” I say.
“Mm hmm,” my house says.