Circa 1965

This house is a lady, or at least she likes to pretend

she is one; a crumbling manor by a cliff, a setting

for a Gothic novel perhaps, or home to an aged duke.

How embarrassing to know she is a maltreated midcentury

houswife-ish sort of gal, one who rubs shoulders on the street

with other working class houses who wish they were Italian villas.

She began to stumble years ago and now her chimney leaks

in the rain, she watches ruefully as the water drips down her chin.

She is plagued with moisture and cats. Buckets beneath faucets drip endlessly,

feline paws tickle the corridors and purr along the baseboards.

We gave up on renovating her, we send mortgage payments

tied to slow flying pigeons as a sacrifice. She holds no grudges,

this lady, she cradles me in the upper right bedroom

while I bathe her once more in holy water and tears.