I need to fix
that place on the porch
where the foot
first strikes at mounting
or leaving

My dear wife fixed
the squeak in the storm
door that used to
warn of approaching
intrusion

I need to straighten
the disheveled kitchen.
A place for everthing
and everything out
of place.

In the dark I can
hear the clack clack as
heat climbs the pipes from
the basement. On cold nights
the sweet smell of steam.

An old man hangs on
the wall. Used up and sorrow
ful, 1940's Coney Island.
Lost among the
manufactured joy.

Mardi Gras shrine on the
shelf. Bird's nest of grass and
silvery tinsel, surrounded by candles
and masks, Padre Pio, the Virgin
and Juju Beads. Eclectically pagan.

We've had no possoms
in the basement for months.
Have not had to murder
the mice, though the mousey
guillotine stands ready.

Ghost in the bath room insists
on turning on lights at inopportune
moments. Or perhaps electrician shoved
too many switches in
one box.

Dust bunnies multiply like
rabbits, bind together
as if mating and roll across the
floor like West Texas
tumble weeds.

Three decades of books, records,
journals, violin, banjo, piano,
unused bagpipe cantor.
Coats and shoes, newspapers.
Almost bought an Italian squeeze
box last week.

This is where we live.
The kids at the school
next door throw their
lunch trash in the yard.
Ah. Its the price of
living in paradise.