THIS CRUMBLING HOUSE

by Michelle Rogge


I would love you if you let me.
I would let you in.
Inside is a sweet old house built about 1910,
With rooms both large and small --
Grand rooms for damask-curtain moments
(when we're dancing in tuxedo and gown);
Cozy rooms that invite in-ti-ma-cy;
A game room where you and I could play
(We might never know which one of us
Was letting the other win);
A kitchen where we could bake cookies and
Create a culinary heaven.
I'd let you lick the bottom of the bowl.
Be careful with that spatula!

Enter my sunlit bathroom with windows from
Floor to ceiling, facing a meadow of daffodils
(Ready to applaud a show of naked limb).
Step into my old-fashioned claw-leg tub;
I will run the water for you and
Even slip in next to you -- if you like --
To scrub your back, to soak in the
Slipperiness of wet soapy skin against
	wet soapy skin.

And in the bedroom of my house
I would collapse all the other rooms and
Open bits of them in there
So that you might have anything you desire
From the various rooms of my house --
A book of comedy from my library
Will send you rolling off the bed in a
	laughter collapse;
A glass of red wine from my private bar
Will find you heady, demanding more.
Never mind the stairs creaking.
Never mind the faucets leaking.
Notice, instead, won't you -- the stained glass windows,
The window seats for daydreaming, and
The beautiful burnished banister.
(You have my permission to slide down.)

But no -- instead of reveling in my house,
You choose to sit un-com-for-ta-bly
On the last step of my porch,
Smoking
Your car running
The horizon in your eyes
Promising palaces beyond.