Quiet House

A time, a place to live—
summer rhythms and I rise when I do
work for a time
rest and eat
voices in the street
the UPS truck, mailman,
cars chuckling in reverse
paint on my clothes and stubble on my face.
Old houses--
things settle, become quiet
mostly level and plumb, nothing square
molding undulates along bricks
grown comfortable with each other.
The ritual of painting--
smooth strokes over new wood and old,
uniform white spanning the years.

I imagine showing the apartment to someone
seeing the new paint
the terracotta floor
the water-smooth ceiling--
this person who knows nothing of last month’s
bows and bends and sags overhead
or the old floor, rippling underfoot,
a shape just fine in nature but not in
a living room.
This person will not know of
the dusty mortar behind the walls
the cracked tiles that were replaced
the crumbling brick, now patched
the shelves where windows were.
Maybe he or she will notice that curve in the
molding and raise an eyebrow
or balk at reaching for the checkbook.
“150 years, things happen,” I’ll say.
“This house is settled, it’s not going anywhere.”
A time, a place to live
a security deposit
one month’s rent
a year lease
a fraction of time
the blink of an eye for this quiet house.