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




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