I have a habit of staring at houses. I love it when they're lit up at night, and I can see into them from the street--the lit world of another life. I know you're not supposed to look into other homes and worlds, but if they leave the lights on, how can I not look? But there's this one house on the circle near my home that is really sweet. It has a huge porch and many windows, a back yard full of trees and deer and a creek. The house has been for sale forever. The owners keep fixing it up and fixing it up. Everything about this house looks ideal, at least to me. But what do I know? Yeah, I know--houses everywhere are for sale, but the hideous one that looks like a tomb that is a block away--it sold in a matter of weeks. As did the one that is the color of puke. And the double wide . . .
I sometimes think of my poems when I pass by these houses. I sometimes think my crappy ones get swept up right away. And the ones I like, I keep fixing up and fixing up. I can't ever fix them up enough of course. That's my curse.