There would be three stories, weathered shake shingles,
a tall brick chimney, wrap around porches with spindles,
bay windows, a ramshackle house with gables built
far back from the street in an older part of town
There would be trees half hiding the place,
full oaks, a massive sycamore over dappled grass,
free fallings willows, Japanese maples,
no sidewalk to the front door, a gravel drive
There would be hard wood floors, a drawing room
with a large stone fireplace, ancient area rugs,
arched foyer with chandelier, floral wallpaper,
alcoves for reading, a kitchen with hanging pots
There would be add-ons over time,
a round stained glass window at the peak,
red brick patio for cooking out, for playing guitars,
and the runaway girl Carrie laughing at last
There would be the silhouette of a man leaning
over a typewriter in the east dormer window,
a place to sleep for anyone passing through, a platter
of chocolate chip cookies always just inside the door
There would be kabob afternoons, taco parties,
overturned milk crates for making speeches,
for Jackleg Johnny on the sofa telling happy lies,
a wooden deck in back for sunning in the nude
There would be a house like that during haiku times
where free spirits could gather for love
where no Richard Nixons or General Giaps could gape
through front porch windows waiting for us outside