I want a home with good bones, a bungalow
from the 1920s with mahogany columns and
beaded wainscoting in the parlor.
I want maple floors well worn from years of
children’s slippers, lath plaster, and an attic
where boys hid airline liquor and pinups.
I want a home with catacombs for walls,
where the man of the house once stashed
his mistress’s many perfumed letters.
I want an oak front door with leaded glass
transom, and a warped front porch, which
when walked across feels like sailing drunk.
I want hand-hewn siding and a porch swing
with braided ropes that creak to the cadence
of my daydreams. I’d swing there for hours,
Sipping bourbon, spitting tobacco, squinting
across the way toward the neighbor lady’s
upstairs bedroom window—
Then I’d raise my glass, the sun sinking
through it, and watch the last of the day
slowly undress those whitewashed spindles—
The afterglow of history gently revealed
on the many fine weather-worn bones
of my good home.
